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Father Merrill. 


True godliness is rarest grace 
And rarest honor given; 

The life that is it glorifies, 

The life to come makes heaven. 


BY 

MARY DWINELL CHELLIS, 

7 

AUTHOR OF “DEACON SIMS* PRAYERS,” “MOLLY’S BIBLE,” 

“effie vvingate’s work,” etc. 




PUBLISHED BY 

ISRAEL P. WARREN, 

52 Washington Street, 
BOSTON. 



V X * ' 
,c^ * 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, 
By ISRAEL P. WARREN, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


Stereotyped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry, 
19 Spring Lane. 


AWARD OF PREMIUM. 


The undersigned, appointed a committee to award 
the Premium of $500 offered by Rev. I. P. Warren, 
D. D., “ for the best manuscript for a Sunday School 
Book,” have examined the manuscripts submitted to us 
for that purpose, and are unanimously of the opinion 
that the one entitled 

“ FATHER MERRILL ” 

is deserving of that distinction, and we accordingly 
award to it said premium. 

We regard this story as eminently natural and well 
told. Its characters are distinctly portrayed, so that 
they stand out in the memory like real individuals to 
whom we have been introduced, and with whom we 
have had acquaintance. The character of Father Mer- 
rill himself is delightfully drawn, and discloses a very 
lovely and practical form of every-day religion, exhib- 
iting itself in the ordinary intercourse and business 
of life without cant or even demonstration, — the very 
beauty of holiness. 

It is an uncommonly sensible and admirable book, 
interesting enough to win the younger readers, and 
profound enough to instruct and bless the oldest. 

I. N. Tarbox, 

B. K. Peirce, 

S. G. Ashton, 

Committee. 




( 3 ) 












♦ 







































CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Honesty 7 

II. Family Consultation at Mr. God- 
dard’s 23 

III. New Plans 35 

IV. Changes at the Mill 55 

V. Dorcas Armstrong’s Offer 65 

VI. The Murrays 82 

VII. Father Merrill’s Prayer Meeting. . 96 

VIII. Brent Murray’s Accident 117 

IX. Making new Acquaintances 139 

X. Frank Clifford 163 

XI. A Wanderer rescued 182 

XII. Mr. Murray’s Authority questioned. 212 

XIII. George Esty as a School Teacher. 241 

XIV. The Epidemic 261 


5 


6 


CONTENTS. 


XV. Sickness of Brent Murray 282 

XVI. Changes among the Young People. 295 

XVII. George Esty’s Return to the City. 318 
XVIII. Dorcas Armstrong’s Experience. . . 332 
XIX. The Blessing that maketh rich. . . 354 

XX. A Sudden Death 371 

XXI. Father Merrill’s Thanksgiving. . . 385 



FATHER MERRILL. 


CHAPTER I. 

HONESTY. 

ODLINESS is profitable unto all 
things ; having promise of the life 
that now is, and of that which is 

to come.” 

An old man repeated this grand truth, which 
so needs to be impressed upon the eager aspi- 
rants for worldly gains and worldly honors. 
Threescore and five years had Father Merrill 
numbered ; yet was not his . eye dimmed, or 
his natural force abated. His figure, tall and 
erect, his head wearing its crown of glory, 

7 




8 


FATHER MERRILL. 


and his face, eloquent with peaceful, loving 
thoughts, — he was one to win the confidence 
of all who looked upon him. His counsel was 
sought by young and old. His sympathy was 
craved by those who sorrowed and those who 
rejoiced. Children felt themselves blessed by 
the touch of his hand, and the suffering were 
soothed by the tones of his voice. 

His wife, a woman of rare goodness, was 
well worthy to share his home and fortune. 
“ Worthy of a better fortune,” as he had some- 
times told her, when his own was limited to 
what he could earn by daily labor. 

But for more than a quarter of a century he 
had been the owner of the best farm and the 
best house in town. Sons and daughters had 
here gathered around him, and from this home 
had gone forth to the active duties of life. 
But of all, not one remained to cheer the de- 
clining years of their parents. In the flush 
of manhood and womanhood they had died, 
leaving none to bear their name. 

A grandson, Seth Merrill Grant, the only 
child of Father Merrill’s eldest daughter, was 


HONESTY. 


9 


the one link which bound the old man to the 
coming generations. And this child the 
grandparents had not seen since he was an 
infant. Soon after the death of his wife, the 
father had removed to a distant part of the 
country, and all intercourse between the fami- 
lies ceased. 

Truly these Christian parents had been 
afflicted ; yet through all they had been able 
to say, “ Thy will, O Lord, be done.” It was 
an unexpected providence, however, which 
took from them their home, when they most 
needed its comforts, and would most keenly 
feel their want. To assist a friend, Mr. Mer- 
rill had given his name as security in certain 
business transactions, and, as a result, had 
been obliged to sacrifice his entire property ; 
although there were those who insisted that 
he was under no obligation to do this. He 
was urged to make some arrangement by 
which this could be avoided. 

“ Would it be honest ? ” asked the old man, 
looking earnestly at the neighbor who coun- 
seled him to save his home. 


10 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ More honest than Goddard has been/’ was 
the reply. “You ought to think of your wife 
in this matter.” 

“ I have thought of my wife, neighbor Hurd. 
I’ve always thought of her first, since a good 
while before we begun to live together. She 
never’s had reason to doubt my word, and 
’twould go hard with us both if she had to 
begin now.” 

“But, Father Merrill, this an’t your debt, 
and folks don’t think you ought to pay it. 
Goddard may pull through, but tan’t no ways 
likely ; and if he goes under, you’ll go with 
him, unless — ” 

“ Unless I act like a scoundrel,” interrupted 
the old man, with unwonted severity. 

“ Does your wife know anything about it ? ” 
asked the neighbor. 

“ She knows all about it,” was the reply. “ I 
didn’t lend my name to Ben Goddard without 
consulting her. If a woman’s got to share a 
man’s lot, she ought to have some voice in 
managing it. Mother and I don’t have no 
separate interests.” 


HONESTY. 


II 


“ Have you any objections to my talking 
with your wife about it?” 

This man had been requested to leave no 
means untried to effect his purpose. 

“ Not the least in the world,” Father Mer- 
rill replied to this question. “ Come right in 
now, and I’ll promise not to speak a word, 
unless I’m asked.” 

Mrs. Merrill listened to her neighbor while 
he explained the manner in which business 
could be arranged, and their home be saved. 
“You see it’s what a good many do,” he has- 
tened to add, “ church members, too ; and there 
an’t a soul in this town that would think any 
less of you or your husband for it.” 

“ There’s two that would,” the good woman 
responded. “ Father and I should. I don’t 
doubt but what you mean well ; but we must 
keep a clear conscience, whether we have a 
home or not.” 

“But Goddard han’t been honest, mother 
Merrill. Your husband didn’t expect he’d 
run half the risks he has, and that makes a 
difference.” 


12 


FATHER MERRILL. 


"It makes a difference with him, but not 
with us,” was Mrs. Merrill’s answer. “ I can’t 
think but what he meant to do about right. 
We mustn’t judge him too hard. We all make 
mistakes.” 

“And that’s the way you look at it!” re- 
marked Mr. Hurd, a little impatiently. 

“Yes, neighbor, it is. Father and IVe 
thought it all over, and made up our minds.” 

“ ’Twas hard for you, mother ; but he 
wanted to talk with you,” said Mr. Merrill 
to his wife, when their visitor had left. 
“’Twas all out of good will to us that he 
come. It’s likely to me Ben Goddard won’t 
keep on many days longer, though I don’t 
doubt he’s trying, might and main. I wanted 
to help him along; but I didn’t expect how 
’twould turn out.” 

“You did what you thought was for the 
best, father. We’re both of us strong and 
well, and if we have to go away from here, 
there’ll be a place for us somewhere else.” 

“There’ll be a home for me as long as you 
live, Mary,” replied the old man, laying his 


HONESTY. 


13 


hand caressingly upon his wife’s head. “ But 
I hope Ben will come over, and explain mat- 
ters, so that I shan’t blame him more than he 
deserves.” 

Just at night a worn, tired-looking man 
drove up to the door, and fastened his horse, 
without once looking to the house. He lin- 
gered a little, fumbling awkwardly with some 
part of the harness. Then he raised his hand 
to his face, half shading his eyes ; and thus 
he might have stood, unconscious of the lapse 
of time, had not a pleasant voice called to 
him. 

“ I can’t come in,” he replied. “But I’ve 
something to tell you, if you’ll hear it.” 

“ Of course I’ll hear it. Come right in and 
sit down. Mother and me are here alone.” 

Ben Goddard did not again refuse, although 
it seemed impossible for him to enter that 
house. 

“ I’ve come to tell you that — ” Here the 
visitor paused in his pre-arranged speech, and 
exclaimed, “ I’d rather have lost my right 
hand, Father Merrill, than come here to-night. 


14 


FATHER MERRILL. 


I’m a scoundrel and a thief ; but I didn’t mean 
it. You won’t believe I ever meant to wrong 
you, the best friend I ever had. Say you 
won’t believe that, whatever comes.” At this 
point, the speaker broke down utterly, and be- 
fore another word was spoken, knelt at the 
feet of the man whom he had beggared. 

“Ben, my boy, you mustn’t kneel to me. 
I’m going to believe every word you say; 
and I’m glad you come. Take a chair here, 
right between mother and me, and tell us all 
about it,” said Mr. Merrill. 

But Ben Goddard was like a child in his 
grief. Now that his self-control had given 
way, great sobs convulsed his frame, while 
tears rained down his cheeks. Despite all 
remonstrances, he would not rise until he had 
received assurance of forgiveness ; and even 
then it cost him a terrible effort to meet the 
gaze of his friends. These dear friends, who 
had known and loved him since he was a boy, 
wept with him, moved by sympathy rather 
than sorrow, for their own misfortunes. 

“ I haven’t shut my eyes for two nights,” he 


HONESTY. 


15 

remarked, when he could command his voice. 
4 ‘ Last night, at ten o’clock, I went down to 
the mill, determined never to leave it alive. 
It seemed to me I couldn’t live and meet 
what’s coming.” 

“ And did you think you could meet your 
God better than you could your fellow-men ? ” 
asked Father Merrill, his voice quivering with 
emotion. “ Oh Ben ! I wouldn’t believed that 
of you,” he added. “Why, my boy, your 
mother was a Christian woman, and your 
father was* a Christian man. You wouldn’t 
taken your own life?” 

“ I couldrit do it,” was the reply. “ But I 
was sorely tempted. ’Twas thinking of you 
and mother Merrill made me feel the worst. 
I’d been willing to die, if that would freed you 
from all connection with my business.” 

“ Don’t, Ben, don’t talk so,” said Mrs. Mer- 
rill. “I don’t count our property anything 
beside your life. Didn’t you think of your 
wife and children ? ” 

“Not so much as I did of you and your 
husband,” was the answer to this question. I 


1 6 FATHER MERRILL. 

didn’t give up till yesterday ; and now I’ve 
managed to put things off, so there’s one 
chance for you to save yourselves.” 

“Ben ! Ben ! You han’t come to tell me I 
can do a dishonest thing,” exclaimed his host. 
“ I didn’t expect you’d run such risks when I 
give you my name, and I’m sorry you did ; 
but I shan’t go back on the security. I can 
bear poverty ; but I can’t dishonor my Master.” 

“ I didn’t do right,” responded Mr. Goddard, 
sadly. “ I ought to have consulted you about 
the risks ; but I was so sure of making money, 
and clearing off every debt, that I neglected 
it. If it hadn’t been for the freshet I believe 
I should. That did a good deal of damage ; 
and while I was repairing, I lost a good many 
orders that would have given me great profits. 
I’ve tried hard to save myself and you, father 
Merrill ; but everything has seemed to work 
against me since the freshet.” 

“ The Lord’s hand was in it, my boy,” was 
the old man’s reply. “If this leads you to 
acknowledge him as your God, you’ll be a 
more prosperous man than if you’d made all 


HONESTY. 


I 7 


the money you expected. I want to see you 
a Christian, more than I want to keep my 
home.” 

“ I mean to be a Christian some time,” Mr. 
Goddard made answer. “ I know I need reli- 
gion. I never felt that as I did last night ; 
and I never felt my own wickedness as I did 
then.” 

“ We must all feel our wickedness before we 
are willing to ask God’s forgiveness. I hope 
you thought of that, Ben.” 

“ I’m afraid I thought more of your forgive- 
ness than I did of God’s. I could bear my 
own trouble, and my family could bear their 
part of it.” 

“ And God will help us to bear our trouble,” 
said Mr. Merrill. “I’m so thankful that you 
meant to do right, it don’t seem so hard. 
We’d better talk it all over, and have a fair 
understanding. It’s always best to look every- 
thing square in the face, and see the worst 
of it.” 

“ Had you been to supper before you came 
from home?” now inquired Mrs. Merrill, 


2 


1 8 FATHER MERRILL. 

who had not thought before to ask the ques- 
tion. 

“I left home soon after dinner,” was the 
reply. “ But it’s all the same. I don’t wish 
for any supper. I haven’t eaten much for the 
last week or two.” 

“ Then there’s the more need you should eat 
with us,” said the good woman. “ Father, you 
and Ben better go into the west room to talk 
over your business.” 

From the windows of this west room could 
be seen the long sweep of meadow land, and 
the rich upland fields, which formed a large 
part of Seth Merrill’s goodly estate. Years 
of skillful cultivation had made this a model 
farm ; and in all the country round there was 
not another which would so attract the atten- 
tion of a stranger. The owner of this fair 
heritage did not look from the windows, as 
was his wont ; but seating himself at an old- 
fashioned desk, motioned his companion to a 
chair near him, as he said, “ I want to know 
everything about your business that concerns 
me. I must make some calculations.” 


HONESTY. 


19 


Again the younger man wept ; but directly 
his host exclaimed, “ Come, Ben, this won’t do. 
The sooner the better, my boy ; and I trust 
I’m prepared for the worst.’* 

By a great effort, Ben Goddard restrained 
his tears. He had come prepared to make 
every possible explanation in regard to his 
business ; and taking from his pocket a large 
package of papers, he soon proved that he had 
been neither careless nor dishonest. 

Mr. Merrill, quick to see and acknowledge 
this, said heartily, ‘II know you meant well, 
Ben, and you had reason to calculate on com- 
ing out right. I’m glad to know it, too ; and 
I have just as much confidence in you now as 
I ever had.” 

“ Oh, Father Merrill, do you really mean 
that ? ” cried the unfortunate man. 

“Yes, Ben, I do mean it. I’m in the habit 
of saying what I mean ; and there’s another 
thing, — I’d rather lose every dollar I’m worth, 
than know you’ve been dishonest. ’Twill take 
all ; but there’ll be a way provided for ftiother 
and me.” 


20 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ But it is so hard,” said Mr. Goddard. “ It 
almost distracts me to think of it.” 

“ No, Ben ; don’t feel like that. There’s a 
providence in it for all of us. You’ve time 
enough to make money, if you live ; and I 
hope I haven’t set my heart on this place If 
I have, it’s best it should be taken from me.” 

At this moment, Mrs. Merrill opened the 
door, to say that supper was ready, her sweet, 
placid face showing no traces of agitation. 
“ Come, Ben,” she said, pleasantly. “ It’s a 
good while since you ate with us, and you 
ought to have a good appetite after your 
ride.” 

Thus urged, he went to the table, where his 
plate was heaped with tempting food, which 
he could not but accept. “ I haven’t eaten such 
a meal for a fortnight,” he said, with something 
like cheerfulness, as he declined the fourth cup 
of tea. “ I begin to feel some courage ; and, 
please God, you shall spend your last days in 
this house, if we all live ten years. I’m going 
home*to tell my family what you’ve done for 
me. They shall know that you’ve saved me, 


HONESTY. 


21 


soul and body. If you’d reproached me, and 
believed I meant to be dishonest, I shouldn’t 
know how to go home. Now, if you’ll excuse 
me, I’ll hurry along.” 

“’Twas just as I expected,” remarked Mr. 
Merrill that evening, when, with his wife, he 
reviewed the events of the day. “ Ben meant 
well ; and if he’d asked me, I don’t know but 
I should have told him to keep on. He was 
always a good boy, and it may be that this is 
the way to make him think more of another 
world than he does of this. Now, mother, 
you and I must hold him up. There’s a good 
many’ll say he’s been dishonest, and that’ll 
hurt him about getting into business. It’s 
the Lord’s doings, all of it ; and we won’t 
complain.” 

“ No, father,” was the wife’s reply. “ There’ll 
be a way opened for us. I’m just as sure of 
it, as I be that we’ve been blessed, in basket 
and store, all these years. I love the old 
place ; but now the children are all gone, we 
don’t need so much room. There’s only you 
and me.” 


22 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ That’s all, Mary ; and God knows what’s 
best for us.” 

As Mr. Goddard had said, he began to feel 
some courage. The fact that father Merrill 
had accepted his explanation, and still trusted 
him, was of great importance. His principal 
creditor, although not a generous man, was 
scrupulously just, so that he could count upon 
honorable treatment. 




CHAPTER II. 

FAMILY CONSULTATION AT MR. GODDARD’S. 

HE mill, of which he had been the 
owner, was a woolen manufactory, 
producing a kind of flannel, then 
coming into favor, and could be run at great 
profit. He hoped to make some arrangements, 
by which he would be allowed to retain charge 
of the mill, and share the profits. Everything 
depended upon the principal creditor, and dur- 
ing his ride home Mr Goddard was devising 
ways and means by which this man might be 
influenced. At length it occurred to him that 
father Merrill's judgment and counsel would 
have more weight than that of any other 
friend. “ But I couldn’t ask another favor of 
one I’ve ruined,” he said aloud. “ That would 
be too much. I must take my chance.” 

23 




24 


FATHER MERRILL. 


At home, wife and children waited anxiously 
for his return. There was Ben, junior, sixteen 
years of age, the best scholar and the hand- 
somest boy in the district. A strong, well-knit 
frame, and a full, broad forehead, gave proof 
of the energy which only waited the develop- 
ment of time and opportunity. He was 
mother’s boy ; as devoted to her as if she 
had been some young girl whose love he 
sought to win. “ Handy,” the neighbors 
called him, because he knew so well how to 
assist his mother, and lighten her labors ; but 
I fancy that “hearty” would have best de- 
scribed him. A universal favorite, many were 
the predictions of his success in life. He, 
himself, also indulged in ambitious dreams. 
To go through college and study a profession, 
were the first steps in his anticipated career ; 
and not one wish or hope was concealed from 
his mother. His father, too, shared his confi- 
dence ; but this father knew that he held the 
second place in his boy’s affections. 

Next in age to Ben was Dell, a girl of twelve, 
and a fitting companion for her brother : ambi- 


FAMILY CONSULTATION. 


25 


tious to excel in whatever claimed his atten- 
tion, and desiring no higher praise than to be 
assured she had done as well as he. William, 
two years younger, and the twins, Charles and 
Charlotte, five years of age, completed the 
family number. 

Mr. Goddard had been unwilling that his 
wife or son should know the extent of his 
liabilities, or the danger of his failure. He 
had been morose and gloomy, quite unlike his 
usual self ; yet he gave no explanation, beyond 
saying that his business troubled him. But 
there were others who, knowing of his embar- 
rassment, did not scruple to' carry the evil 
tidings to his family. 

“ I wish father would tell me about it him- 
self,” said Ben to his mother. “I know I 
could help him if he would. Things have 
been going wrong ever since the freshet. I’ve 
seen enough to know that, and father don’t 
seem like the same man he did before.” 

“ No, he don’t,” answered Mrs. Goddard with 
a sigh. “ I know there’s trouble coming ; but 
he won’t tell me.” 


26 


FATHER MERRILL. 


The conduct of the husband and father was 
closely scrutinized. After a time a terrible 
fear took possession of his wife’s heart. In 
his sleep he revealed what he would not dis- 
close in his waking hours, at the same time 
hinting vaguely at a sure way of escape. 

When he went to the mill, the night before 
his visit to Mr. Merrill, he was followed by his 
son, who did not allow him to remain unob- 
served for a single moment. All unconscious 
of this, the wretched man paced the floor of 
his counting-room, while a knotted coil of rope 
lay upon the desk. Several times he paused 
in his nervous walk and examined the rope, 
until, at last, he threw it from him with an 
expression of horror. “ My God ! save me 
from myself,” he cried. 

Outside, the boy watched and waited, great 
drops of perspiration on his forehead, while he 
scarcely dared breathe, lest he should betray 
his presence. Long past midnight his father 
returned to the house, he following cautiously. 
He lay down beside his brother, closing his 
eyes, and hoping to shut out the picture which 


FAMILY CONSULTATION. 


27 


haunted him. In that night he seemed to 
grow older by many years. His brain was 
strangely active, and for the time all personal 
ambition was forgotten. To encourage his 
father, assist his mother, and in some way 
help his brothers and sisters, he was ready 
to make any sacrifice. 

Little did the father know of the true char- 
acter of his son ; little did he dream how he 
had been guarded by the care of this boy, who, 
the next morning, greeted him so cheerfully. 
But now, as he pursued his solitary drive, he 
thanked God that he was yet alive, with health 
and strength to labor, and if so it might be, to 
retrieve his fortune. 

When he reached home he received an 
affectionate welcome from each member of his 
family, the younger children clamoring for 
caresses. Surely he was not a poor man. 

“ We waited supper for you/’ said his wife. 

“ And I have eaten supper with father and 
mother Merrill,” was the reply. “You should 
not have waited so late for me. But perhaps 
I can eat again.” 


28 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ Wait for Ben,” urged Dell, who wished to 
share all things with him ; and so soon as he 
- had cared for old Bill he came in response to 
his sisters call. 

It had been weeks since so cheerful a group 
had gathered around this table. *A burden 
seemed lifted from all hearts, and yet not a 
word had been spoken in regard to the subject 
which was to them of vital importance. After 
supper Mr. Goddard talked with his children 
until the striking of the clock reminded them 
that it was time for them to retire. 

Ben and Dell, who counted themselves 
“ grown up,” were allowed to consult their 
own pleasure in the matter of sleep, and this 
evening their father desired their companion- 
ship. He had something to tell them ; and 
as parents and children grouped themselves 
closely together, he felt strong to do and bear 
whatever might be demanded of him. 

Beginning with the first business venture, 
in which he had been assisted by Mr. Merrill, 
he recounted in detail his plans and his expec- 
tations. He had been confident of success. 


FAMILY CONSULTATION. 


29 


He spoke of the anxiety he had suffered, and 
the agony he had endured, confessing the 
temptation which had assailed him. 

“ It makes the blood curdle in my veins to 
think of it,” he exclaimed. “ I was a fool and 
a coward to think of leaving you to bear what 
I could not bear myself. But something held 
me back, and, thank God, that temptation can 
never come to me again. I didn’t think so 
much of you as I did of the old folks that 
must lose their home through my misfortune. 
’Twas terrible for me to go over there to-day. 
I’d rather have lost my right hand ; but they 
treated me as though I was their son, and 
encouraged me to hope for better days. Ben, 
my boy, do you think we can get a living 
when the old mill is gone?” 

Ben’s labored breathing betrayed his emo- 
tion, and it was almost with a gasp that he 
said, “ We must pay Mr. Merrill, whether we 
have a living or not. I can work.” 

“ So can I,” rejoined Dell, speaking for the 
first time. “Ben and I can work together 
somewhere. It’s too bad those dear old people 


30 


FATHER MERRILL. 


should lose their beautiful home. Couldn’t you 
help it, father ? ” 

“ No, child, I couldn’t, since I thought there 
was any danger,” replied Mr. Goddard, with a 
quivering voice. “ I’ve tried my best ; but it’s 
no use. Wife, haven’t you something to say ? ” 
he asked, turning to the woman at his side. 

“ No ; only we must do the best we can,” 
she answered. “ I’m sorry for father and 
mother Merrill. That seems the worst. I 
wish — ” Here she paused, not caring to 
complete the sentence. 

“ I wish too, wife,” said her husband sadly. 
“But wishes never avail anything. If I live 
ten years, I can make this matter right. I 
could do it in less time if Mr. Cofran w.ould 
allow me to run the mill at any decent rate.” 

“Wouldn’t he?” asked Ben, now fully 
roused. 

“ I don’t know,” was the reply. “ It all de- 
pends on whether he thinks me honest, and 
cares to give me a chance. Father Merrill 
would have more influence with him than any 
one else ; but I can’t ask another favor of the 


FAMILY CONSULTATION. 


31 


old man. I meant to stave off the crash as 
long as I could ; but now, since it’s all under- 
stood, I don’t care how soon it comes. Then 
we shall know the worst, and can make our 
plans accordingly. I’m afraid you’ll have to 
put off going to school, Ben. I meant to send 
you right along.” 

“ I’ll send myself some time ; but I can 
wait,” the boy replied bravely. “ I’ll help you 
the best I know how, if you’ll let me do it my 
own way. I’ve got a plan, or the shadow of 
one. It won’t cost anything to try it, and it 
won’t hurt anybody ; but I’m not ready to tell 
what it is.” 

Later, when all in the house were still, Ben 
went softly into his sister’s room, where the 
two held a whispered consultation, while the 
old clock on the stairs ticked loudly, as if* to 
remind them of the flight of time. “ Why, it’s 
two o’clock ! ” at length exclaimed Ben. “ Go 
to sleep now, and we’ll see what will happen 
when we’re all wide awake down stairs.’’ 

Mr. Goddard left his bed early next morn- 
*ing; but he had not been long up when his 


32 


FATHER MERRILL. 


son accosted him cheerfully, saying, “Well, 
father, I hope you are going to let me try my 
plan. The more I think of it the better it 
seems.” 

“ Does your mother know about it ? ” 

“ No, sir. No one knows except Dell. But 
I think you can trust me.” 

“ I think I can y my boy,” was the hearty 
response. 

“ Then I can have old Bill to-day, and go 
where I please ? ” 

“Yes,” answered the father; and that he 
trusted his son was proved by the fact that he 
asked no questions. “ I must be at home all 
day. I have money to pay off the help, and 
shall find enough to do without riding. The 
world looks brighter to me this morning than 
it has for a long time. If I could only have 
that old mill two years, as trade is now, I could 
do something.” 

“ If you could, father, I would take Billy 
Brown’s place, and not ask for any help either. 

I know about chemicals as well as he does.” 

“ Perhaps ; but I’m afraid it’s no use to think* 


FAMILY CONSULTATION. 


33 


of the mill. We must give that up, and try 
the next best thing.” 

At this Ben turned away to light the 
kitchen fire, and make ready for his mother. 
Dell soon appeared, her face eloquent with the 
secret which had been intrusted to her, and 
which seemed to her the grandest thing in the 
world. 

“ Can we have old Bill ? ” she asked in a low 
tone. 

“Yes; that’s settled,” replied her brother. 
“So all we’ve got to do is to be ready for a 
start. I’m going to work in the garden. You 
help mother, and mind you look bright. Don’t 
let her see any long faces.” 

“ I won’t,” answered Dell, and directly she 
was trilling a merry lay, which rang out upon 
the morning air clear and sweet as the song 
of a bird, 

Mrs. Goddard, cheered by this, gave ample 
praise to her daughter for what had been 
accomplished in the way of preparation for 
breakfast. “There’s not much left for me to 
do,” she said, smiling. 

3 


34 FATHER MERRILL. 

“ We didn’t mean there should be,” replied 
the energetic girl. “Ben and I want to go 
away this morning, if you can spare me.” 

“Yes, child, I can spare you, and I shall 
be glad to have you go. You and Ben have 
earned a holiday.” 

“You dear, good mother!” cried Dell, kiss- 
ing her, and then giving attention to the twins, 
who came forward, rubbing their eyes, not 
quite certain that they were awake. 

Charley called loudly for Ben ; but in de- 
fault of the young man’s appearance, managed 
to accept the services of Ben’s sister. It 
really began to seem like old times in that 
home. A stranger might have fancied that 
some good fortune had come to the family. 
No one was allowed to wear or see a long face. 
Mr. Goddard went out from breakfast hopeful 
and courageous. 



CHAPTER III. 

NEW PLANS. 


OT long after this Bill was harnessed 
to the light wagon, and old Towser, 
having mutely begged the privi- 
lege of making one of the party, Ben and 
Dell started for their drive. Usually they 
had eyes for every flower which nodded in the 
breeze, and ears for every sound of Nature’s 
music ; but this morning they were intent 
upon business. 

“ If we could only do something so that Mr. 
Merrill needn’t lose his home,” said Dell, who, 
after* her brother’s lucid explanation of the 
law as regards security, comprehended that 
her father’s friend was to be held responsible 
for debts her father had incurred. “ I don’t 
think anybody ought to take his house just 

35 



36 FATHER MERRILL. 

because — ” Here her logic failed, .and she 
waited for Ben to speak. 

“ There are two sides to that,” he remarked. 
“ But it’s bad business from first to last, and 
the more I think of it the more I’m afraid I 
shall be ashamed to look Mr. Merrill in the 
face.” 

“ Why, you haven’t done anything, Ben. 
They know you haven’t, and you can tell 
them how sorry you are, so they won’t blame 
you.” 

They were nearing their destination as the 
young girl thus encouraged her brother, and 
old Bill, to whom the place was familiar, soon 
stopped where he had stopped the previous 
day, and looking around in a leisurely way, 
seemed to say, “ Here we are, in good, honest 
company, true as steel, and ready to work for 
a living.” 

At a word from his master, Towser stretched 
himself under the wagon as Dell sprang to the 
vine-covered porch, where she waited for her 
brother to announce their coming. 

Before this was done, however, Mrs. Merrill 


NEW PLANS. 


37 


opened the door, and said kindly, “ So I am to 
have visitors this morning. I suppose I ought 
to know you.” 

“ My name is Dell Goddard,” was the reply. 

“So it is, child, and that’s your brother. 
Good morning, Ben. I’m glad to see you. I 
should known who you was if I’d seen your 
horse. Come right in to the west room. 
Why, Ben, how you grow! You’re most as 
tall as your father, and they say you’re a good 
boy. You look like it, too. You make me 
think of my John. You’ve come to make me 
a visit, han’t you ? ” 

“We’ve come over on business,” the boy 
replied, after acknowledging the compliments 
he had received. “ Is your husband at home?” 

“ He’s about home. I guess likely he’s back 
of the barn. Can you find him, or shall I send 
Betsy ? ” 

“I can find him, Mrs. Merrill. I wish to 
see him on business, and I will leave my sister 
with you.” 

“ It’s just as pretty here as it can be,” said 
Dell, when her shyness had worn off a little. 


38 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ I should like to live in such a place, and I’m 
so sorry you’ve got to go away, all because of 
father. We’re all of us dreadful sorry. But, 
mother Merrill, Ben and I are going to earn it 
all back for you,” she added familiarly, in her 
eagerness, adopting the style of address used 
by her parents. “ Ben can do most anything, 
and I can do as he tells me. Don’t you think 
we can earn it back if we work real hard ? ” 

Then two little brown hands stole into the 
clasp of hands thin and withered, while a 
child’s face was pressed close to one wrinkled 
and care-worn. 

“ Dear ! dear ! ” murmured the good woman, 
unable to say more, as her tears began to 
flow. 

“Don’t cry, don’t cry! We certainly will 
work,” pleaded Dell with a sob. “ Father told 
us all about it last night, and he says there 
an’t anybody good as you be, and — ” Here 
the speaker was forced to pause for want of 
breath, and the next moment she was sitting 
in mother Merrills lap, with two loving arms 
about her. “Why, were both crying ! ” she 


NEW PLANS. 


39 


said. “ ’Tan’t a bit as I meant to do ; but 
you see I forgot what Ben told me to say.” 

“I guess you’ve said just the right thing,” 
replied Mrs. Merrill. “Any way, you’ve done 
me good, and we’re going to be friends. I 
han’t any grandchildren to come and see 
me, so I guess I’ll adopt you and Ben. How 
would you like to have me for your grand- 
mother ? ” 

“ I should like it ever so much, and I know 
Ben would. And you’d like Ben, too. He’s 
real good, and he makes me good. Mother 
says he’s her right hand, and the children love 
him most as well as they do her.” 

“Yes, yes. I don’t doubt it. I shall be 
proud of my grandchildren ; and you can tell 
Ben about it when he comes in, and see what 
he says. Now wipe your eyes, and we’ll see 
what we can find for luncheon.” 

Meanwhile Ben, junior, had made his best 
bow to Mr. Merrill, and been cordially wel- 
comed. “ If you’re not too busy, I’d like to 
talk with you about my father’s business,” he 
said with great effort. “ I want to do some- 


40 


FATHER MERRILL. 


thing about it. He told us about your kind- 
ness last night, and I wanted to come and see 
you.” 

“That’s right,” was the hearty response. 
“I’m glad to see you. We’ll sit right down 
here, on this flat stone, and say just what we 
want to.” 

Ben found it more difficult to commence the 
conversation than he had supposed, and the 
silence was getting awkward, when his friend 
said, questioningly, “ Well ? ” 

“Yes, Mr. Merrill,” he made answer. “I 
thought I knew what to say; but I don’t. 
I’ve known father was in trouble, and I felt 
bad about it ; but I couldn’t help him till he 
gave me a chance. Mother and I watched 
him, though he didn’t know it, and night be- 
fore last I followed him to the mill. Perhaps 
you don’t know — ” 

“Yes, my boy; he told me how he was 
tempted. I wouldn’t thought it of him ; but 
it’s only them that trust in the Lord that are 
safe.” 

“Yes, sir,” answered the listener, vaguely. 


NEW PLANS. 


41 


“ It frightened me to see him ; but last night, 
when he told us all about it, I thought I could 
do most anything. You see I’m able to work, 
and I’m willing. If Mr. Cofran would lease 
us the mill for five years, we -could make all 
square.” 

“ Do you think that ? ” asked Mr. Merrill. 

“ Y es, sir,” was the reply. “ Shall I take 
too much of your time if I tell you how it 
looks to me ? ” 

“ No, my boy ; tell me. I want to hear.” 

Ben proceeded to explain, showing a more 
thorough knowledge of business than would 
have been thought possible. The old man 
considered. “ I don’t care so much for our- 
selves,” his companion added. “ But your 
place must be redeemed. It shall be, if I 
have to work sixteen hours out of twenty-four, 
and live on bread and water. I’m good for 
hard work and poor fare.” 

Mr. Merrill looked admiringly at the brave 
boy, saying, “ Hard- work won’t hurt you, but 
poor fare might. I’m sorry for your father, 
and I can’t say but it’s hard for mother and 


42 


FATHER MERRILL. 


me to give up our home ; but I believe your 
father meant to be honest. You think you 
could do the work of a man and a boy ? ” 

“ I could do what Billy Brown and his boy 
do. I know I could, and do it as well. He 
makes mistakes sometimes, so that father loses 
a good deal ; but I should be more careful.” 

“ How much rent could you afford to pay 
for the mill ? ” 

“ I don’t know, sir. Father said it was of 
no use to think about it ; but he said, too, that 
you could influence Mr. Cofran more than any- 
body else. Father wouldn’t ask you to talk 
with him, after what’s happened ; but I thought 
perhaps you would, when you knew.” 

The speaker was conscious of having ex- 
pressed himself awkwardly ; yet his compan- 
ion did not seem to observe this. It was 
what had been said which moved the old man 
to ask, — 

“ How would you like to go over to Mr. 
Cofran’s with me to-day?” 

“ I should like it very much,” responded the 
boy, springing to his feet. “Old Bill is all 


NEW PLANS. 


43 


ready, and if you would go over .there and talk 
with him, I should be grateful as long as I 
live.” 

“ Let that go, Ben. I’m always glad to lend 
a helping hand, and I’ll do the best I can for 
you with Mr. Cofran. Well go in and see 
mother, and get some luncheon, and then start. 
What ! another visitor ? ” he said directly after, 
when he met Dell in the large, pleasant 
kitchen. “ I should know you for Ben’s sis- 
ter. How do you do this morning, my little 
maid ? ” 

“Very well, I thank you,” answered the 
child, smiling at his quaint address. 

“ I’ve adopted her, father,” said Mrs. Merrill. 

“ Yes ; and, Ben, shouldn’t you like to have 
her for a grandmother ? ” asked Dell, quickly. 

“ Indeed, I should,” was the reply. 

“ Well, then, you can. She told me so, and 
I’ve had a real nice time.” 

This was not said presumingly, although in 
some children Dell’s frankness would have 
seeded like presumption. Certainly Father 
Merrill did not so consider it, as he stooped 


44 


FATHER MERRILL. 


to see the color of her eyes, and note the 
dimple in her chin. It did not take long to 
make explanations, eat a substantial lunch, 
and start on their errand, while Dell waited 
with her new grandmother. 

“ It’s Ben Goddard’s girl,” replied Betsy to 
the hired man, who had asked what child that 
was out in the yard. “She and her brother 
come over this morning. He’s gone off with 
Father Merrill. 

“About that confounded business, likely,” 
was the response. “ It’s enough to make a 
saint swear to think of the old folks being 
turned out of house and home for that rascally 
Goddard. If I could have my way> the cred- 
itors might whistle for all they’d get here. 
I’ve always thought the old man was pretty 
shrewd ; but this dumbfounds me. He’s been 
told what to do. There’s plenty to prove that 
Goddard’s been a dishonest rascal.” 

“ They don’t believe it,” said Betsy. “ He 
was over here last night, and made it all right 
with them. I’m sorry about it as you«be; 
but I’m glad Father Merrill won’t do what he 


NEW PLANS. 


45 


thinks is wrong. He and his wife are about 
the only straight-out Christians I know of, and 
it makes me better to see them do just right.” 

“ That’s a woman’s way of talking ; but I 
tell you what, men know they’ve got to look 
out for the main chance in the world. I don’t 
think no better of the old man for letting his 
farm go under the hammer to pay Ben God- 
dard’s debts.” 

Looking out for the main chance ! And 
what, pray, is the main chance, but that which 
shall endure longest, and rank highest, in that 
great day when all secrets shall be revealed ? 
Mr. Merrill had regard to this, believing that 
godliness is profitable unto all things. “Do 
right, and leave the result with God,” was his 
motto. 

Not that he did not bring to his business 
untiring diligence and careful consideration. 
He was counted a shrewd man, and a good 
judge of property ; seldom deceived in his 
estimates, and rarely at fault in his calcula- 
tions. The plan proposed by Ben Goddard 
commended itself to his judgment, and he 


46 


FATHER MERRILL. 


was glad to do what he could for its fur- 
therance. 

Mr. Cofran loved money: but, as I have 
before said, he was a just man, and after some 
preliminary statements, calculated to put him 
in good humor, he listened patiently to the 
plea in behalf of his debtor. Some rumors 
had reached him to the discredit of Mr. God- 
dard ; but when Father Merrill, who was in 
reality to be the only sufferer, expressed a 
belief that the unfortunate man had acted in 
good faith, he was fain to believe the same. 

“You see there is no possibility of loss to 
you by the arrangement I propose,” said the 
visitor. 

“ I see,” was the reply. “ I hoped Goddard 
would pull through. I don’t want the mill on 
my hands. I don’t know much about such 
property; and I never should have had any- 
thing to do with Goddard if you hadn’t gone 
security for him. It’s been a bad thing for 
you.” 

“’Twill take all I’m worth to meet his 
liabilities.” 


NEW PLANS. 


4 7 


“ The rascal ! He don’t deserve any favors 
from anybody. I don’t see how you can say 
anything good of him. But, to please you, I 
don’t know but I’ll let him keep on where he 
is, if he’ll pay me twelve per cent, on the full 
valuation of the property, and keep it in re- 
pair. You say his boy’s waiting for you in the 
village?” 

“Yes; and a noble boy he is ; worth more 
than a dozen old mills to any man. He’ll be 
anxious to know the result of my visit, so I 
think I’ll hurry along.” 

“No, Mr. Merrill, I’ll send for the boy. I 
want to have a little talk with him, and see 
what he’s made of. Another thing. Do you 
mean to sell your place ? ” 

“ I shall be obliged to ; ” and surely the old 
man may be pardoned if something like a 
sigh supplemented this answer. 

“ Then I think I have a friend who would 
be glad to buy it, and pay a fair price for it. 
His wife is in poor health, and his physician 
has recommended country life. He is on the 
look out for the right kind of a place, and I 


48 FATHER MERRILL. 

think yours will just suit him. He won’t care 
to take possession before another spring, so 
there’s plenty of time to make arrangements.” 

In obedience to the summons he received, 
Ben Goddard presented hknself, and after hear- 
ing the decision of Mr. Cofran, thanked him, 
with all the gratitude which broken words and 
tears could express. 

“ I’ve done it more for Mr. Merrill’s sake 
than your father’s,” was the reply, softened 
somewhat by the tone in which it was uttered. 

“And I thank you more for his sake than 
father’s,” said the noble boy. “ Tf I live, Mr. 
Merrill shan’t lose anything for his goodness. 
So I thank you both, and I’ll prove what I 
say.” 

“ Well said, my boy,” responded Mr. Cofran. 
“ I think better of your father for having such 
a son ; and so long as you pay the interest 
promptly, you can run the old mill day and 
night for all me. To-morrow I’ll come Over 
and see your father. The sooner this is settled 
the better.” 

I will not repeat the thanks Father Merrill 


NEW PLANS. 


49 


received on his way home. He had bound 
to him one strong, brave heart, which would 
never fail him. 

“ I can’t express half I want to,” at length 
said Ben. “ Words don’t amount to much. I 
wish there was something I could do for you 
to prove how grateful I am.” 

“You think I’ve done a good deal for you, 
don’t you, Ben ? ” was the response made by 
his friend. 

“Yes, sir; of course I know you have,” 
exclaimed the boy. 

“ And you an’t ashamed to own it ? ” 

“ Why, no, sir ; I’m proud to own it. How 
could I be ashamed ? ” 

“ I’ll do all I can for you, Ben ; but you may 
die to-night. If God should so will it, all I 
could do wouldn’t amount to anything. I’ve 
tried to help put you in a way to earn money ; 
but I can’t give you health or strength. You 
know who gives you these, Ben.” 

“ I suppose I do, sir ; though I never thought 
much about it.” 

“ You’ll think of me to-night ? ” 


4 


So 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“Why, yes, sir; I couldn’t help it if I 
should try.” 

“Well,, my boy, I like to have you think 
of me,” said the old man, with a smile. But 
there’s one thing I want you to do for me. I 
want you to read a chapter in the Bible, and 
thank God for giving you health and strength. 
Will you do it, or is that too much to ask ? ” 

“I’ll read the chapter, sir, and I’ll try to 
thank God.” 

“ Try to thank him, my boy ! How can you 
help it? You’ve thanked me.” 

“Yes, sir; but that’s different. I can’t see 
God.” 

“ But he sees you, and hears your faintest 
whisper. Don’t you suppose God had some- 
thing to do with your business to-day ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Well, I know, my boy. I prayed that he 
would incline Mr. Cofran’s heart to hear my 
request, and my prayer was answered. I shall 
thank God on my knees to-night for this great 
mercy.” 

There was a struggle in the boy’s mind. 


NEW PLANS. 


51 


He had not been religiously educated. His 
father had been engrossed in business, and his 
mother had drifted with the current rather 
than opposed its force. The family attended 
church when convenient to do so, Ben and 
Dell being more constant than the other mem- 
bers. When a child, his mother taught him 
a simple form of prayer ; but long ago he had 
ceased to repeat this, so that now he never 
prayed. 

“ Mr. Merrill, I’ll do as you want me to,” he 
said, after a long silence. “ I will thank God 
to-night, and I will thank him every night.” 

“ And in the morning, too, Ben, you’ll need 
to ask him to keep you from doing wrong 
through the day. Why, my boy, your very 
breath depends upon God’s will. You want 
to live to help your father, and some time you’ll 
want to do something for yourself. So you 
see life is worth something, whether you thank 
God for it or not. You’ll need him for a friend 
all the way through ; and if your peace is made 
with him, it won’t make much difference what 
happens. This life is nothing, compared with 


52 


FATHER MERRILL. 


eternity. ’Twon’t be long now before mother 
and me will go to our eternal home.” 

They did not talk much after this until they 
reached Father Merrill’s house. 

“ We’ve been greatly prospered,” then said 
the old man to his wife. “ Ben or his father, 
I an’t certain which, is going to run the mill, 
and everything is to be settled tO-morrow. 
The Lord went with us. Now after supper 
these children can go home and tell the good 
news.” 

Once more, before leaving, Ben expressed 
his gratitude to the dear old man who had so 
befriended him. “You’ll see what I shall do,” 
he said. “And we shall owe everything to 
you.” 

“Everything to God, my boy,” was the 
reply. “ Let your heart be right in his sight, 
and thank him for his goodness.” 

How happy were they all as they separated, 
with promises to meet again. Even old Tow- 
ser seemed to understand that there was cause 
for rejoicing, while Dell was ready to shout for 
very gladness. “ Won’t father be glad ! ” she 


NEW PLANS. 


53 


exclaimed. “ And now I’m going to work, too. 
I can do what Lotty Brown does, and that will 
save some money. Oh, I’m so happy ! But 
it seems to me you’re dreadful sober, Ben. I 
thought you’d laugh all the time. An’t you 
glad?” 

“ I guess I am,” was the response. “ But I 
want to think it all over. I shall tell mother 
all about it now. I didn’t want to tell her till 
I was sure.” 

Ben was thinking ; yet, just then, not so 
much of business as of his relations to God. 
He remembered his promise to Mr. Merrill, 
and for almost the first time in his life realized 
his dependence upon a higher power. This, 
however, he did not care to reveal to his sister, 
who made an effort to be quiet, that she might 
not disturb him. 

In sight of home his face brightened, and 
the welcome he received banished all religious 
thoughts. It was not until he was in his 
chamber that he recalled the subject. Then 
he took a handsome Bible from the drawer in 
which it had been placed months before ; and, 


54 


FATHER MERRILL. 


too ignorant of the Scriptures to make an 
intelligent selection, opened the book and gave 
attention to what first presented. He read 
the twelfth chapter of Luke, omitting not a 
single word. Thus much he did willingly ; 
but this was not all which had been required 
of him. He assumed the attitude of prayer, 
thinking of his benefactor, and wondering in 
what words the good man had expressed his 
gratitude to God. He attempted some ac- 
knowledgment of mercies given, and in a 
feeble manner offered his thanks. 

Sleep was sweet to him that night, — sweeter 

for the consciousness of a day well spent ; and 

* 

the next morning he went about his usual 
work with unwonted energy. 



CHAPTER IV. 

CHANGES AT THE MILL. 

T was still early when Mr. Cofran 
drove to the mill and accosted his 
debtor. “ I suppose your boy told 
you about his visit to me yesterday, and that I 
told him I’d make a bargain with you for the 
use of the mill ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” G 

“Well, I don’t exactly like the way you’ve 
done things ; but I don’t know as I’ve any 
reason to complain. I’m sorry for Mr. Mer- 
rill. It comes hard on him.” As if the lis- 
tener did not feel this ! “ I shouldn’t stand in 

the gap, as he’s going to, if I was in his place. 
I’d save myself, and let the rest go. But it’s 
his way, and it’s none of my business. Your 
boy seems to have the right idea about things. 
Where is he this morning?” 55 



56 FATHER MERRILL. 

“ Not far away,” answered Mr. Goddard. “I 
didn’t know where he was going yesterday ; 
but I should have asked you for a lease of the 
mill. I know it looks as though I’d been dis- 
honest ; but God knows I didn’t mean it.” 

“ ’Tan’t for me to dispute you, Mr. Goddard. 
You’ve got one strong friend in the old man 
you’ve ruined, and you shall have a chance to 
prove your honesty if you want it.” 

After this, Mr. Cofran set himself to assist 
the man, who gladly made a plain statement 
of his affairs. “ Things look better for you 
..than I expected,” was the comment. “I’ll 
keep to my part of the bargain as long as you 
keep to yours. «You needn’t thank me,” he 
continued ; “ I don’t mean to run any risks.” 

Notwithstanding this Mr. Goddard did 
thank him, very heartily ; and no sooner was 
he gone, than the manufacturer proceeded to 
inaugurate a new order of things. Billy 
Brown, who had been considered the most 
important man on the premises, was informed 
that he could look for another situation ; and 
as another had been offered, the previous day, 
this matter was speedily settled. 


CHANGES AT THE MILL. 57 

“ I’m thinking the lad knows what to do,” 
was the reply. “He’s always mixing round, 
giving a hint, and trying the color. I’ll give 
him a little teaching, and welcome. I’m fond 
of him, for his kind ways, let alone my good 
will to you. ’Twill be a change for him, 
though, and he so taking to his books ! ” 

It was a change, indeed ; but Ben was thor- 
oughly in earnest, and when business was 
settled, he had not a doubt of the ultimate 
success of his plan. His father, inspired by 
his example, worked industriously, so that he 
was able to diminish the number of his work- 
men, and thus make a large reduction in his 
expenses. The whole family were organized 
into an efficient working force, while there 
was a general enthusiasm throughout the 
mill. 

On one of the beautiful autumn days, which 
seem, from their late coming, to be fairest of 
all the year, Mr. and Mrs. Merrill drove over 
to see their friends. The visit had been long 
anticipated ; yet there could not fail to be 
something of sadness mingled with its pleas- 


ure. 


58 


FATHER MERRILL. 


At this time Mr. Goddard’s debts had been 
paid ; no one suffering by him, except the 
man who, of all others, least deserved it. Mr. 
Cofran’s friend had purchased the estate of 
Father Merrill, paying a liberal price, and 
evincing a rare consideration for the feeling of 
the old people. 

Many had protested against the sale, offer- 
ing to advance money, and take a mortgage of 
the property. Mr. Goddard was sure he could 
pay the interest yearly, and make some reduc- 
tion of the principal. Both father and son 
urged that they might be allowed to do this ; 
but Mr. Merrill would not consent. 

"I’d rather Mr. Murray ’d live here than 
anybody else, and mother feels the same,” said 
the old man. “We an’t going to be yery 
poor, after all. We’ve got a horse, and four 
cows, and fifty sheep ; and the crops are going 
to turn out better than they have for ten 
years. Then there’s all the household stuff ; 
so we shan’t suffer no way. I want you to 
have a fair chance ; you’ve got children to look 
out for, while mother and me han’t nobody 
but ourselves.” 


CHANGES AT THE MILL. 


59 


So it was all settled. The property had 
changed owners ; while the present occupants 
were to remain until spring, managing the 
same as ever. No labor necessary for the fu- 
ture good of the farm was neglected ; indeed, 
it seemed to those who were interested, that 
there had never been so much done in any 
previous autumn. 

It was done cheerfully, too. No one heard 
Father Merrill or his wife complain ; and when 
they drove into Mr. Goddard’s yard, they 
looked not at all like people upon whom the 
hand of misfortune had rested heavily. Only 
Mrs. Goddard and the younger children were 
in the house to welcome them ; and not long 
after their arrival Mr. Merrill went to the mill. 

“ Well, Ben, my boy, hard at work this 
morning, are you ? ” 

“Yes, sir, I am,” was the reply to this greet- 
ing. “ I can’t shake hands with you, but I’m 
just as glad to see you as though I could. 
I’ve been into matters, pretty deep, as you can 
see,” added the boy, with a laugh. “ Have 
you seen father ? ” 


6o 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“No. I didn’t know where to look for him.” 

“ Nobody knows, only he’s always on the 
premises. Why, he does the work of two 
men. I tell you it don’t take so many hands 
to run this old mill as it used to, and we’re 
going to make a big thing of it You’ll have 
your house back in a few years, if there don’t 
anything break more than a belt.” 

Ben was in rather uproarious spirits over 
his success in the business he had assumed. 
Not one failure or mistake had made a loss for 
his father ; and now a large order was to be 
filled, at the earliest possible day. After some 
further conversation, our hero remarked, “ I’d 
go and hunt up father ; but I can’t leave my 
vat for an hour or two.” 

“I’ll find him, my boy. I’m glad you’re 
getting along so well, and I’ve no doubt you’ll 
be prospered.” 

Mr. Goddard was not far away, and seeing 
the visitor, hastened to meet him. The father 
was less demonstrative than the son, but his 
satisfaction was equally apparent. 

“We never made so much cloth, in the 


CHANGES AT THE MILL. 


6 1 


same length of time, as we have in the last 
two months, and we never made it with so 
little expense. Ben’s got everybody on the 
place enlisted to do their best, and there’s a 
strife to see which shall do most.” 

This was said as they sat in the counting- 
room ; and Mr. Merrill replied, “You’ve a 
great deal to be thankful for.” 

“ Y es, I have, and I know who I owe it all 
to. If it hadn’t been for you — ” 

“ If it hadn’t been for the Lord, who was on 
your side, you’d have worked in vain. Don’t 
exalt the creature above the Creator. God 
has remembered you in your perplexities.” 

The look of annoyance upon the listener’s 
face was banished almost instantly ; yet not 
before it had been observed by his companion, 
who pursued the subject no further at that 
time. Hastening to speak of what was sure 
to interest, he remarked upon the improved 
appearance of the mill-yard and out-buildings. 
“You must have been hard at work,” he said. 

“Yes, sir, I’ve tried to keep busy,” was the 
reply. “ I don’t mean to run behind if hard 



62 


FATHER MERRILL. 


work is good for anything. I shouldn’t have 
much to trouble me now, if you could keep 
your home.” 

As the two went through the mill, not one 
employed in it but knew the old man, whose 
goodness had been so often the theme of con- 
versation. “ It’s him Ben’s working for,” re- 
marked one and another ; and, had they added, 
“ it’s him were working for,” they would have 
spoken the truth. 

Dell stopped her work, to say how glad she 
was to see grandfather Merrill, and presently 
she wa£ hastening to the house to say the 
same thing to his wife. After the two hours’ 
attention given to his vat, Ben left it for a 
time, and at noon a happy company sat down 
to the best dinner the hostess could prepare. 
Treated as honored parents throughout the 
entire visit, Mr. and Mrs. Merrill were pleased 
with everything they saw and heard, and 
grudged not the sacrifice they had been called 
to make. 

Before leaving, Ben found an opportunity to 
assure his friend that he had not once omitted 


CHANGES AT THE MILL. 


63 


to thank God for the mercies of each day. 
“But I’m afraid, sometimes, that the thanks 
come from my lips more than from my heart,” 
he said, sadly. “ I’m thinking of my work, or 
I’m very tired, so I don’t always feel the same ; 
but when I have time to sit down and think, I 
know I’m indebted to God for everything I 
have. Sundays Dell and Willie read with me, 
and we always go to meeting. I told Dell 
what I promised you, and she said she’d try 
and thank God, too. I try to do right, but I 
don’t suppose I always make out. If I’m ever 
as good as you be I shall be satisfied. But, 
Father Merrill, there’s one thing troubles me. 
I want to do something in the world ; and I’ve 
heard folks say that Christians an’t so likely 
to succeed as others.” 

“ And did you believe it, my boy ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” was the hesitating reply. 
“ It don’t seem as though it ought to be so.” 

“It an’t so,” said the old man, earnestly. 
“ A man can get rich sometimes by lying and 
cheating; but getting rich an’t always being 
successful. Money’s a good thing ; but if 


6 4 


FATHER MERRILL. 


that’s all anybody has, it don’t amount to 
much. Look at old Thad Brockway. It’s 
likely he’s worth forty thousand dollars.” 

“ I should rather be in blind Mrs. Simpson’s 
place than his ! ” exclaimed Ben Goddard. 

“ Well you might, my boy. She’s waiting to 
have her eyes opened, in heaven, while he — 
but I won’t say anything hard of the poor 
man. _I pity him. Let me tell you, my boy, 
if you want to make money in a good, honest 
way, you’ll get along better for being a Chris- 
tian. I’ve always noticed that ; and then the 
good Book says that ‘ godliness is profitable 
unto all things, having promise of the life that 
now is, and of that which is to come.’ ” 




CHAPTER V. 

dorcas Armstrong’s offer. 

OT many days after her visit to the 
Goddards, Mrs. Merrill was looking 
from the window-, and saw a horse, 
driven at full speed, coming toward the house. 
“ Why, there’s cousin Dorcas ! ” she exclaimed, 
in a voice which expressed the utmost surprise. 
Black Jim swept round the corner and up to 
the porch in his very best style, proof positive 
that his mistress held the reins. 

“ Cousin Dorcas, I’m glad to see you.” 

“ And I’m glad to be seen, or else I shouldn’t 
come. I didn’t mean, last time I was here, 
to come again ; but I changed my mind.” 

While these greetings were exchanged, the 
visitor had stepped from the wagon and shaken 
hands with cousin Mary, who said, “You just 

5 65 



66 


FATHER MERRILL. 


hitch your horse, and I’ll blow the horn for 
father. He’s somewhere round.” 

“No need of that,” was the reply. “ I’ve 
come to stay all day, if you’ll keep me, and I 
can take care of Jim myself. I came over to 
see you and cousin Seth on business.” 

Her last visit had been made three months 
before, at which time she had exhausted her 
powers of persuasion and argument in the 
vain effort to bring cousin Seth to her way of 
thinking. She called him a fool for “giving 
up his property without being obliged to.” 

“ It’s just the way with the whole race,” she 
said. “ They’re always making plans for an- 
other world, when they ought to be looking 
out for this. I believe in being honest ; and 
there can’t nobody say that I cheat in weight 
or measure ; but I shan’t make a beggar of 
myself because somebody else wants their 
debts paid.” 

“ Poor Dorcas ! She means better than she 
talks,” Father Merrill was accustomed to say, 
when speaking of her. “ She had a good deal 
to try her when her father was alive, and 


dorcas Armstrong’s offer. 67 

’tan’t strange she don’t understand about reli- 
gion.” 

So he had not been offended when she de- 
nounced him in unmeasured terms, declaring 
that she would never darken his doors until 
she changed her mind. He had seen her driv- 
ing down the road, and met her just as she 
left the stable. 

“You see I changed my mind,” was her first 
salutation. “ I don’t suppose you bear me any 
ill will. You hadn’t ought to, if you can for- 
give that Ben Goddard. I han’t done as bad 
as he has.” 

“ I give you good will and hearty welcome, 
cousin Dorcas,” responded her host. 

“ Well, that’s enough, — till I ask for more,” 
she made answer, with something like a smile. 
“You needn’t trouble yourself about Jim. 
I’ve took care of him. We come over pretty 
good jog ; but I’ve rubbed him down, so he’s 
all right.” 

“ You’ve been offered a great price for that 
horse, cousin Dorcas ? ” 

“ Yes ; but money won’t buy him as long as 


68 


FATHER MERRILL. 


I live. Them horse jockeys needn’t come 
round my farm. I’m able to keep Jim, and 
drive him, too. We’ve had fine weather for 
fall work.” 

“Yes, never better; and I suppose you’ve 
improved it ? ” 

“ Well, cousin Seth, I’ve tried. I’ve had the 
old pasture cleared of stone, and plowed. I 
calculate to make a cornfield of that some 
time.” 

“You’re one of our best farmers, Dorcas. 
Your crops always turn out well, and your 
land grows more valuable every year. I’m 
glad for your good fortune.” 

“ I know you be. I han’t forgot that you 
was the only one that encouraged me to keep 
the farm, and try to pay off the mortgage. 
You helped me with money, too ; and I han’t 
forgot it, if I be a cross-grained old maid. 
I’ve got enough now to take care of myself 
without being beholden.” 

When the cousins went in, a fire was burn- 
ing on the hearth in the west room, the door 
of which stood invitingly open ; but Miss 


dorcas Armstrong’s offer. 


Armstrong preferred to sit in the kitchen, 
where she would feel most at home. That 
she had come for a definite purpose was appar- 
ent ; yet not until after dinner did she say 
anything of business. 

“ You know Daniel Mason’s got the western 
fever,” she remarked, by way of introduction. 

“ I heard he was trying to sell his farm,” 
replied Mr. Merrill. 

“ Yes, he is. He wants me to buy it, and I 
don’t know but I shall, if you’ll come and live 
on it. That farm might be one of the best in 
town, if ’twas carried on right. It’s good land, 
and there’s plenty of muck in the old swamp. 
If I had the handling of it, I’d get out a hun- 
dred cart loads before winter. I ; ve told Mason 
so ; but he says he don’t believe in book farm- 
ing. His father didn’t do anything with the 
swamp, and he wouldn’t. I believe in book 
farming, common sense, and steady work. 
That’s what tells.” 

“ Yes, yes, cousin Dorcas. I’ve found it 
so. Mason ought to made a good living off 
from that farm. As you say, it’s good land. 


7 o 


FATHER MERRILL. 


You’ve got a mortgage on it now, han’t 
you?” 

“Yes ; and I mean to own the whole of it, 
if you’ll live on it. That’s what started me 
out to-day, and I hope I han’t come for 
nothing, same as I did last time. You can 
pay me what you’re a mind to for the use of 
the farm, after you get it in order ; but I cal- 
culate for a year or two ’twon’t much more 
than give you a living. ’Tan’t as pleasant a 
place as this is ; but the house is large enough, 
and I’ll have it repaired before spring. I’ve 
got some money I want to put somewhere, 
and I’d rather put it into that farm than any- 
where else. Now, cousin Seth, what do you 
say? Will you come and live neighbor to 
me?” 

“ If mother’s willing, I guess I will,” was 
the ready reply. “ May be, though, we should 
want a day or two to make up our minds cer- 
tain. It’s very good in you to think of us, 
Dorcas. I didn’t expect it.” 

“Well, I expected I should do something, 
I didn’t know exactly what. It’s twenty years 


dorcas Armstrong’s offer. 71 

now since you said to me, ‘Cousin Dorcas, 
you can just as well keep the farm and work 
for yourself, as to work for other folks.’ I 
han’t forgot that. Then you looked after the 
mortgage, and promised it should be paid. 
After all, I han’t no right to find fault with 
what you done for Ben Goddard, and I’m sorry 
I did. You’ve always been helping somebody, 
you and cousin Mary ; and you’ve always lived 
up to your profession. I’ll say that anywhere. 
You profess to live by the rules of the old 
Book, and you do. There can’t nobody deny 
that.’’ 

“ They’re good rules, cousin Dorcas. You’ve 
followed a good many of them, and that’s why 
you’ve prospered. It’s a wonderful old book, 
and the more I read it, the more I prize it. 
It’s full of comforting promises from beginning 
to end. It says, ‘ Give, and it shall be given 
back to you.’ That’s the way mother and me 
has found it.” 

“ Cousin Dorcas, I wish I could tell you how 
much I thank you for your kindness,” now 
said Mrs. Merrill. “I’ve been praying that 


72 


FATHER MERRILL. 


the Lord would open a way for us. I always 
thought that Mason farm was pleasant ; and 
if father thinks best, I shan’t make no objec- 
tion to going there.” 

The matter was further discussed, and the 
old people, so strongly urged to decide at once, 
that before Miss Armstrong started for home, 
she had the satisfaction of knowing that her 
purpose was accomplished. She did not stay 
for supper. She was in too much haste for 
that ; and when the parting words had been 
exchanged, at a signal from her, black Jim was 
off like a bird. 

The next morning she called upon her neigh- 
bor, ready to purchase his farm, and pay the 
stipulated price within twenty-four hours. 

“ The sooner the better,” replied Daniel 
Mason, who was smoking lazily in the chim- 
ney corner. “’Liza wants to stay with her 
mother this winter, and I’ll start for the west 
as soon as we can move the household stuff. 
So you can take possession right off ; and I 
hope you won’t be sick of your bargain.” 

The necessary papers were drawn up and 


dorcas Armstrong’s offer. 73 

signed, the purchase-money paid, and Dorcas 
Armstrong became the possessor of a dilapi- 
dated house, with a farm of one hundred and 
fifty acres. 

“ And you say she paid for it on the spot,” 
said a townsman to Daniel Mason. 

“ Every dollar,” was the reply. “ And it’s 
likely to me it didn’t take all she’d got laid up 
neither. I tell you what, she’s smart, and as 
good a neighbor as anybody need to have. I 
know she don’t go to meeting, and don’t want 
to hear nothing about the Bible ; but she pays 
a good minister’s tax every year, and there 
an’t a poor woman in town but what she helps. 
There’s Miss Simson, she more’n half sup- 
ports her ; and ’twas she got Miss Hemphill 
to go and stay with her. There needn’t no- 
body talk to me against Dorcas Armstrong. 
I don’t know but two better Christians than 
she is, and them’s Father Merrill and his 
wife.” 

“ But I always heard that Dorcas was head- 
strong when her father was alive. She was a 
great trial to him.” 


74 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ And he was a great trial to her,” retorted 
Mr. Mason. If it hadn’t been for her there 
wouldn’t been nothing done on the place. 
He’d want the whole family to sit down and 
hear him read the Bible and pray two or three 
hours, when work was driving as it could be. 
She wouldn’t always stop to hear him, and I 
don’t blame her. Father Merrill said he didn’t 
blame her neither, and he’s a good judge of 
such things. Her father thought Lizzie was a 
dreadful nice girl ; but Dorcas was worth a 
dozen of her ; and folks said ’twas Dorcas 
John Hampstead wanted for a wife, when he 
began to go to Mr. Armstrong’s. She’s a rich 
woman now, and I’m glad of it.” 

Daniel Mason would do his neighbor jus- 
tice, praising her thrift and industry, although 
he had refused to follow her example. He 
wished to try his fortune in a new place, and 
within a few days the house which had shel- 
tered his family was tenantless. 

Then Dorcas Armstrong made a thorough 
examination of the premises from garret to 
cellar. There were heaps of rubbish in various 


dorcas Armstrong’s offer. 75 

places, rags, broken crockery, furniture, not 
worth removing; and, in addition, the \ usual 
amount of condemned articles to be found in 
the garret of every old farm-house. To dis- 
pose of these in the shortest possible time, 
and to the best advantage, was the first consid- 
eration, and in deciding upon this, the owner 
called to her assistance the boy and girl who 
were her most devoted servants and her most 
sincere admirers. 

Brother and sister, the children of intem- 
perate parents, they had never known a home 
until they found one with the woman who had 
been their best and truest friend. 

Henry Wyman could tell the capacity of an 
old chair or table at the first glance, and, 
what was of more consequence, he could make 
either nearly as good as new. Whatever he 
condemned was to be burned, and under such 
efficient management the house was soon 
cleared, while a great quantity of lumber was 
ready to be conveyed to the boy’s workshop. 

“ I don’t see how folks can afford to throw 
away such things,” said Henry. 


76 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ They can’t afford it,” was the reply. “ They 
do it because they’re too shiftless to mend 
them up. Everything on the farm has gone 
just so. The fences are tumbling down, and 
the barns need shingling. I tell you what, 
children, we’ve got to work lively to get things 
fixed up for our new neighbors. All the old 
trash that’s good for anything we’ll give away ; 
but I an’t going to have so much as a cobweb 
left that belonged to Daniel Mason.” 

Maggie Wyman made herself useful in va- 
rious ways, running with tireless feet, and 
peering with sharp eyes into hidden corners. 
One day’s work accomplished much ; but so 
much remained to be done, that one less ener- 
getic than Dorcas Armstrong would have been 
discouraged. With the means at her com- 
mand, however, good progress had been made, 
when Mr. and Mrs. Merrill rode over to see 
the place. 

“ We’ve got a tight roof on the house and 
barn, and we’re going to patch up the sheds,” 
said their owner. “ I want you to look over 
the farm, and see if what we’ve done suits you. 


dorcas Armstrong’s offer. 77 

Some of the neighbors think I’m just about 
wild ; but that’s nothing new.” 

Mr. Merrill approved of all she had done, 
predicting that the farm would yet do her great 
credit. “ Then you’ll be willing to live on it,” 
she added, a little anxiously. 

“ I shall be glad to live on it,” was his reply. 
“ I begin to think of it as home already, and 
I’ve no doubt the Lord will prosper us. He 
always has, and some way it seems as though I 
was nearer to him than ever before. It’s a 
great thing to have the Lord on our side. 
He’s helped you through a good many hard 
places, cousin Dorcas.” 

“ I’ve got through a good many,” she re- 
sponded. “ But I’ve worked hard for it. Folks 
can’t get along much without hard work.” 

Mrs. Merrill examined the house and sur- 
roundings, mentally arranging her furniture, 
and locating her beds of flowers and sweet 
herbs. “ It’s further from meeting than where 
we live now ; but that’s about all there is to 
say against the place,” she remarked to her 
husband, as they were driving home* “We 


78 


FATHER MERRILL. 


must try and have some meetings at our house. 
There an’t many folks in the neighborhood 
that get out Sundays, and we must see what 
we can do. I know there’s some excuse for 
Dorcas feeling as she does ; but she’ll have a 
good deal to answer for. Her example keeps 
others back from doing their duty. Why, 
them children han’t been to meeting since 
they’ve lived with her, though they’ve got 
clothes good enough to wear, and she don’t 
allow them to work Sundays any more than 
we should. They’ve got more books than 
most any other children, and Dorcas says 
they shall have all they want, as long as they 
live with her.” 

“Yes; Henry told me about their books,” 
replied Mr. Merrill. “The minister selected 
them, and he’s going to buy more the next 
time he goes to the city. Dorcas says she 
wouldn’t trust anybody else ; but she don’t 
want them to hear him preach.” 

“ Don’t they want to go, father ? ” 

“ Henry said he did sometimes, though he 
never says anything about it to her. She’s 


dorcas Armstrong’s offer. 79 

been so good to him and Maggie that they 
want to please her. He’s a good, smart boy, 
and* Dorcas trains him pretty much by Bible 
rules. Perhaps there’s a work for us to do in 
that neighborhood, mother, and the Lord’s 
took his own way to set us about it. We 
must magnify the religion of Jesus to cousin 
Dorcas. She see enough of what her father 
called religion in her young days ; but she 
don’t know much about the right kind. 
There’s a providence in all that’s happened 
to us, mother, and may be we shall live to 
thank God for having to change homes in our 
old age.” 

During the winter, people who visited Mr. 
and Mrs. Merrill for the purpose of sympathiz- 
ing with them in the loss of their property, 
found small need for words of consolation. 
Their cheerfulness was a wonder to all ; and 
if some tears flowed as they bade adieu to 
their pleasant home, they were carefully con- 
cealed, even from each other. 

The moving was effected some days before 
Mr. Murray was to take possession of his pur- 


So 


FATHER MERRILL. 


chase, and in all the town there was not a 
cleaner house than that the doors of which 
were thrown open to receive the old people. 
Dorcas Armstrong, with every member of her 
family, was ready to welcome them, and assist 
in any necessary work. Nothing was wanting 
for their comfort which it was possible for their 
kinswoman to supply. Everything bore testi- 
mony to the labor of efficient and willing 
hands ; and it was not long before the tenants 
felt quite at home in their new quarters. 

Pleasant surprises awaited them, among 
which not the least pleasant was the return 
of Star and Bright, a pair of favorite oxen, 
which Mr. Merrill had sold with his farm, and 
which Mr. Murray begged he would accept as 
some compensation for extra work done the 
previous autumn. Then another cow was 
added to their stock, this being a present 
from Ben and Dell Goddard, who were de- 
lighted to give some expression of their 
gratitude. 

Betsy, the girl who had assisted in kitchen 
and dairy for several years, went with them, 


dorcas Armstrong’s offer. 


8i 


and the hired man, after a great deal of com- 
plaining, showed his good sense at last by 
engaging with Father Merrill for another year, 
promising to do his “ level best.” “ We’ll let 
folks see that we han’t started on the road to 
the poor-house just yet,” he remarked to Betsy, 
after telling her what they proposed to do out 
of doors. 

6 




CHAPTER VI. 

THE MURRAYS. 

AVING grain and the silken tassels 
of the corn made beautiful hitherto 
neglected fields. Clover bloom per- 
fumed the air, and sleek, well-fed cattle grazed 
in the pastures. The wonderful crops were 
just Father Merrill’s luck, as many averred, 
who, but a few months before, had pitied him 
for his conscientiousness. 

There was a ready market for all he wished 
to sell. The butter was as sweet and golden,' 
and the cheese as finely flavored, as had ever 
come from Mrs. Merrill’s dairy. They ac- 
knowledged God’s hand in all this, thankful 
for the blessings which crowned their lives. 

Every Sabbath they drove past their old 
home, looking eagerly to see what changes had 

82 




THE MURRAYS. 


83 


been made ; but with never a sigh for their 
lost possessions. They missed attending the 
evening meetings ; yet solaced themselves with 
the anticipation of a neighborhood meeting 
they would establish, somewhat later in the 
season. 

In all this time Mother Merrill had not vis- 
ited Mrs. Murray. Perhaps she dared not 
trust herself to do this, lest she might be quite 
overcome by the sight of dear, familiar places ; 
and her husband was not one to urge her be- 
yond her own wishes. Every one spoke of 
the sick lady as being gentle and uncomplain- 
ing, although she was seldom seen to smile. 

Mr. Stearns, the clergyman, who had called 
upon Mr. Murray’s family as a matter of cour- 
tesy, never saw any one of them in his congre- 
gation on the Sabbath ; and it was soon un- 
derstood that the gentleman did not believe in 
church going. H^counted this as a puritani- 
cal practice, which a more enlightened age 
should discard. He believed in the God of 
Nature, the spirit of the beautiful, and the 
pervading presence of a mystic power, which, 
undefined and unseen, was yet ever active. 


8 4 


FATHER MERRILL. 


Not that he obtruded his opinions upon 
others, or sought to influence those outside his 
own family. He was too well bred, and, if I 
may be allowed the expression, too good a man 
to do this. If others were happier for their 
simple belief in old dogmas, he would not 
take from them their happiness. Mr. Stearns, 
being a neighbor, was the recipient of many 
favors, while all mooted questions were care- 
fully avoided. In the house, where God’s 
word had been daily studied, there was now 
but a single copy of the Bible, occupying a 
place with other old books. 

“ If I’d known Mr. Murray was such a man, 
I don’t know' as I should thought ’twas right 
for me to sell to him,” said Father Merrill to 
his wife, after having assured himself that the 
reports he had heard were true. “ Mr. Stearns 
says there an’t no chance to argue with him ; 
and likely to me that wouldn’t do any good. 
He knows both sides. I wish you’d go over 
and see his wife some time, mother. If she’s 
going to die she’ll need a Saviour, and may be 
you could help her find him.” 


THE MURRAYS. 


*5 


“ I’ll go to-morrow,” was the quick reply. 
“ I don’t know as I’ve done right to stay away 
so long, but — ” 

“ I know, mother,” interrupted her husband ; 
“ but God’s hand has led us.” 

“ Yes, father,” responded the wife, “ He 
knows what’s best, and I’ve no reason to com- 
plain. 

Mrs. Merrill thought little of outward adorn- 
ing, for its own sake ; yet her delicate taste 
and rare sense of fitness manifested them- 
selves in her style of dress. A soft gray silk, 
becomingly made, with muslins of the finest 
and clearest, made her look the real lady that 
she was. No one would think of calling her 
“ countryfied,” as she stood waiting to be ad- 
mitted to the house of which she was the hap- 
py mistress for so many years. 

“ I would like to see Mrs. Murray, if she is 
able to see me,” she said to a servant who 
opened the door. 

“ Please to come in, and I will speak to her,” 
was the reply. “ It’s Mrs. Merrill, isn’t it ? ” 

“ That’s my name,” she answered, following 


86 


FATHER MERRILL. 


her conductor into the old parlor, which was 
so changed that she would not have recog- 
nized it. 

She had hardly seated herself, when the ser- 
vant returned to say that Mrs.’ Murray would 
be happy to see her ; and crossing the hall, 
she entered a room furnished with everything 
necessary for the comfort of an invalid. Pic- 
tures adorned the walls, and a vase filled with 
flowers occupied a central position on the 
table, which was strewn with magazines and 
papers. 

The occupant of this room rose to receive 
her. guest ; extending her hand cordially, as 
she said, “ I have wished to see you ever since 
we came here. Thank you for coming. Let 
me take your bonnet ; you will be so much 
more comfortable without it.” 

“Thank you, dear,” answered Mrs. Merrill. 
“ You sit right down, and let me wait on my- 
self. I’ve come to stay with you an hour or 
two, if you’d like to have me.” 

“ Certainly I should,” was the reply. “ This 
is one of my best days, and I have been wish- 
ing for somebody to talk with.” 


THE MURRAYS. 


87 


Friendly relations thus established, it was 
not long before the visitor was inquiring, in a 
motherly way, in regard to the health of her 
companion ; and from this subject they drifted 
to others, until Mrs. Murray said, impulsively, 
“ I don’t see how you could ever have left this 
beautiful place. Pardon me for referring to 
it,” she added ; “ but I have been told that you 
might have kept it notwithstanding Mr. God- 
dard’s failure.” 

“Folks said we could,” replied Mrs. Merrill. 
“ They said there was some way of cheating 
the law ; but father and me meant to keep a 
clear conscience in the sight of God. ’Twas 
hard, after we’d lived here so many years, but 
’twas right. I’m glad you like the place, and 
I hope you’ll be happy here. I’ve been very 
happy in this house.” 

“ You haven’t any children, Mrs. Merrill.”, 

“ No, dear. We had six, but God took them 
all home.” 

Didn’t it break your heart ? ” 

“ It would if God hadn’t sustained us by his 
grace. We calculated to depend upon our 


83 


FATHER MERRILL. 


children in our old age, but it wan’t so to be. 
We expect to meet them all in heaven, and I 
think we’ve reason. So it don’t make much 
difference which goes first, if we only all get 
there safe. You have children, Mrs. Murray ? ” 
“Two,” answered the invalid. “They are 
away from home now. I had another, my 
oldest. He died five years ago, when he was 
fifteen ; and since then I haven’t seen a happy 
day. It almost killed me to lose him. It 
didn’t seem right for him to die, when he was 
so young,” said the bereaved mother. 

“ But it was right, else God wouldn’t taken 
him,” responded Mrs. Merrill. “ Our heaven- 
ly Father does not afflict willingly, or grieve 
the children of men. It’s all for some wise 
purpose, though we can’t see it.” 

“And you believe God takes our friends 
from us, Mrs. Merrill ? ” 

“ Y es, I believe God does everything. Don’t 
you believe it ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” Mrs. Murray replied ; and 
her despairing tone expressed more of doubt 
than did her words. “ If I was sure, I could 


THE MURRAYS. 


89 


bear almost anything. But this uncertainty 
kills me. My Harry believed in God. We 
had an old Scotch woman living with us, who 
read the Bible and prayed, and when he was 
sick he wanted her with him all the time ; and 
when they were alone together I knew they 
talked of things the rest of us didn’t under- 
stand. At last, Harry said he was perfectly 
happy, and ready to die, although he was so 
weak he could only whisper a word now and 
then. Only a few minutes before he died, he 
drew me down to him, and whispered, ‘ Els- 
peth will tell you all about it ; and you and 
father must believe her. I know it’s true, for I 
see the “ King in his glory.” ’ My husband said 
he didn’t realize what he said ; but it seemed 
to me then that he did, and it has always 
seemed so to me since.” 

“ I presume he did see the King in his glo- 
ry, as he told you, Mrs. Murray. Departing 
spirits see with clearer vision than we can ; 
and sometimes it seems as though the vail was 
lifted for them' while they’re in the flesh. Did 
the old woman tell you what give your boy so 
much comfort ? ” 


FATHER MERRILL. 


'90 


“ No, Mrs. Merrill, she didn’t. I wasn’t al- 
lowed to see her. My husband said it wasn’t 
best that I should, and he forbade my talking 
about Harry’s death. But I have told you, 
and it has done me good. Perhaps you know 
the sanfe old Elspeth did.” 

“And where is she?” asked Mrs. Merrill, 
eagerly, overlooking for the moment the wo- 
man before her. 

“ I don’t know,” was the reply. “ My hus- 
band says she is well provided for, and has a 
good home. He never crossed me in anything 
but this, Mrs. Merrill ; and when we were first 
married, I promised to think as he did about 
religion. But I can’t now for all my promise, 
though I don’t know what to believe.” 

The visitor knew not what reply to make to 
this communication ; and perhaps it was well 
that Mr. Murray came in, thus relieving her 
from the necessity. He. expressed quite as 
much pleasure at seeing her as his wife had 
previously done ; and when she rose to leave, 
urged her to repeat her visit at an early day. 

One thing was wanting in that household. 


THE MURRAYS. 


91 


There was intelligence, refinement, and taste, 
but with all these, it lacked the crowning- 
grace of religion. The husband and father, 
generous, chivalrous, and affectionate, yet with 
his own hands barred the pearly gates against 
those he loved. He well nigh worshiped his 
wife and children, withholding from them no 
earthly good it was in his power to bestow. 
Strangely blinded must he have been, to dwarf 
their lives by denying to them a faith in things 
unseen and eternal. 

However it may be ridiculed by flippant 
speakers or writers, it is nevertheless true, 
that faith in God, as the supreme ruler of the 
universe, and the wise disposer of all events, 
is the great motive power of the world. In 
the hour of national peril and threatened dis- 
aster, instinctively each heart exclaims, “ God 
reigns ; ” and because of this universal confi- 
dence, each true hand deals sturdier blows for 
right and justice. 

Mr. Murray was no exception to the general 
rule, notwithstanding his boasted freedom from 
superstitious beliefs. He regarded the Sab- 


92 


FATHER MERRILL. 


bath as a day of rest, because the physical 
well being of man and beast demanded this ; 
yet never did the church bells ring out their 
peals, but he remembered the old command- 
ment he had learned at his mother’s knee. 

Well might Mr. Murray say that he knew 
both sides. He had been taught the one in 
his boyhood, he had investigated the other in 
the early days of his manhood. His father 
was one who contemned religion, while his 
mother was a Christian ; and it was the mem- 
ory of the many differences, resulting from 
this conflict of opinions, which prompted him 
to ask from his wife the promise, that in mat- 
ters of religion he should be the umpire. 

She was but little more than a child when 
she gave this promise, realizing nothing of its 
true import. . At the time, she had no religious 
feelings or preferences. A pretty, thoughtless 
girl, in a home where only worldly interests 
were considered, it was no sacrifice for her, 
when she gave her hand to the man she loved, 
to give with it the keeping of her soul’s inter- 
ests. And he dared to accept this trust, as- 
suring her that all would be well. 


THE MURRAYS. 


93 


She was a happy wife and mother ; her 
heart stirred to new embtions by new hopes 
and responsibilities. She looked out upon the 
world. Somewhere within it would* be the 
homes of her children, if so be their lives were 
spared. She saw the temptations which would 
surround them, the obstacles which would ob- 
struct their paths, and cried, in very agony, 
“ Is there no safeguard, no sure word of proph- 
ecy, to which they may take heed ? ” 

They who have been taught to cast all their 
burdens upon the Lord, can hardly imagine 
the utter helplessness and vague longings of 
a soul struggling to bear its burdens alone. 
Mrs. Murray appealed to her husband ; but, 
alas ! he could only assure her that he would 
care for all. 

Harry, her first born child, and the idol of 
her heart, was soon to leave home and enter 
school preparatory for college. Her love for 
him made her clear sighted as to the dangers 
to which he would be exposed, and in her poor 
way she endeavored to fortify him against 
them. She was not very wise, but the noble 


94 


FATHER MERRILL. 


boy listened to her, and promised that he 
would never do anything to grieve her. 

About this time the illness of a younger 
child, arid the difficulty of obtaining help, led 
her to engage the services of Elspeth Bawn, 
an old Scotch woman, who was a most devo- 
ted Christian and skillful nurse. Her quaint 
speech and manners soon attracted Harry 
Murray. He loved to listen to her stories of 
Scotch life, and her comments upon the new 
country, as she called America. Her old Bible, 
also, with its metred version of the Psalms, 
and its family records, were to him objects 
of interest. He learned from her more of 
God’s truth than he had heard before in his 
whole life ; and it was well that it should be 
so. His brother recovered ; but he was pros- 
trated with the same disease, and died. 

Since his death, Mrs. Murray had not seen 
old Elspeth, although it seemed to her that 
talking with this woman would be almost like 
seeing her boy again. Her husband saw fit to 
prevent their meeting, yet his gratitude to the 
faithful nurse was manifested in most substan- 


THE MURRAYS. 


95 


tial manner. She was the recipient of a year- 
ly gift, which added much to the comforts of 
her life, and quickened her faith to pray for 
the giver. 

During the years succeeding his bereave- 
ment, Mr. Murray had said less of his peculiar 
tenets. He was not so confident in his own 
judgment, not quite so certain that he could 
answer for the souls of his family. 

His younger son, Brent, was not such a boy 
as Harry had been. Impatient of restraint, 
and demanding the reason of every assertion, 
he proposed ‘to think for himself on all sub- 
jects. There would be for' him no middle 
ground. As a thoroughly good man, or a 
thoroughly bad man, he would bless or curse 
the generation in which he lived. A fine 
scholar, ambitious and eager, he bade fair to 
excel in all intellectual pursuits. He had not 
yet seen his country home, but he was coming 
late in the autumn to spend the winter. His 
sister, too, would take a vacation from school ; 
and they promised .themselves much pleasure 
in winter sports and winter sights. 



CHAPTER VII. 

father merrill’s prayer meeting. 

S may be supposed, Mrs. Merrill’s 
heart was deeply moved by what 
she had heard, and going down the 
long walk, bordered with pinks which she had 
set and trimmed, she scarcely noticed them. 
She prayed for the woman she had just left ; 
yet her ..thoughts scarcely took definite form, 
and walking on, as if in a dream, she passed 
the house of Mr. Stearns without observing it. 

“ Why, Mother Merrill, an’t you coming in 
to see me ? ” called the minister’s good wife. 

“Yes, dear, yes. I was so busy thinking 
that I didn’t mind where I was,” she replied. 

“You’ve been to the old place,” said Mrs. 
Stearns, when her visitor was comfortably 
seated. “You found pleasant people; but 

96 



father Merrill’s prayer meeting. 97 

* 

they don’t make your place good. I’m glad 
you came over to-day, I have so many things 
to ask you ; and I’m glad you went to see 
Mrs. Murray. Perhaps I’m mistaken ; but it 
always seems to me as though that woman 
had some secret grief.” 

“ Perhaps so,” was the reply. “ I wish she 
was a Christian. I’m sorry to have anybody 
live there that don’t help support the gospel. 
That property was dedicated to the Lord.” 

“ I know it was, Mrs. Merrill ; and perhaps 
Mr. Murray knows it. I don’t suppose he 
would be guilty of helping to support the 
minister ; but he remembers us very kindly. 
He furnishes Mr. Stearns with a great deal of 
reading, and often sends in fruit and vege- 
tables. Another thing in his favor. There’s 
no more work done on that place on the Sab- 
bath, than there was when you lived there.” 

“ I’ve heard so,” answered Mrs. Merrill. 
“ And I must say that we was never treated 
any better, by anybody, than Mr. Murray. 
We’ve had a part of all the plums and pears, 
and yesterday he sent over a barrel of them 
7 


93 


FATHER MERRILL. 


lemon pippins I always thought so much of. 
We’ve had a good deal to thank him for.” 

The children coming in, nothing more was 
said of the new neighbors. Mr. Stearns and 
Father Merrill soon joined the company, and 
conversation became general. There was no 
need of haste on the part of the guests. It 
had been a leisure afternoon ; and as the moon 
was at its full, they were persuaded to prolong 
their visit into the evening. 

“ How soon do you propose to commence 
your meetings ? ” asked the clergyman, in an 
interval of quiet. 

“ I’m thinking about it for next week,” was 
the reply. “ I don’t expect we shall have 
many at first ; but ’twon’t do to despise the 
day of small things. I’m going, to invite the 
young folks after we get started, and there 
an’t many that’ll want to refuse me. We’re 
going to begin in our kitchen, so’s to have it 
seem more home-like. Mother thinks that’s 
the best way.” 

“ Will Miss Armstrong attend ? ” 

“ I don’t expect she will ; but I mean to 


father merrill’s prayer meeting. 99 

have the children there. I know how they 
feel, and it’s partly on their account that I 
want to begin as soon as we can. Dorcas says 
they can do as they’re a mind to about going 
to meeting when they’re older ; but they 
shan’t be driven to hear a prayer or a sermon 
as long as they live with her. She don’t be- 
lieve in that. There’s a good deal of excuse 
for Dorcas. If her father wan’t crazy, he was 
shiftless, and made his zeal in religion a cloak 
for his laziness. I never had much patience 
with him myself, and I didn’t wonder that 
Dorcas got tired of his long-winded prayers 
and preachments.” 

This was a severe speech for Father Merrill 
to make ; but Jerry Armstrong had been a 
sore trial to him. A poor man, every year 
growing poorer, lamenting that the hand of 
the Lord was laid heavily upon him because 
of the sins of his family, he neglected his 
farm until, but for the energy of his younger 
daughter, there would have been no food upon 
their table. His wife died, his elder daughter 
married, and then there remained but these two. 


100 


FATHER MERRILL. 


In vain Seth Merrill reasoned with the indo- 
lent man, urging him to lead a more consistent 
Christian life, quoting passage after passage 
of Scripture to prove that thrift and industry 
were not only acceptable in the sight of God, 
but positive duties. As well might he talk to 
the changeless hills. It was a delicate task to 
counsel the daughter. She must act in oppo- 
sition to her father, or their home would be 
broken up. She could earn her support else- 
where ; but no door was opened to him. So 
she struggled on until his death, which oc- 
curred when she was twenty-one years of age. 

Since then she had proved herself a good 
manager and industrious worker. But the old 
prejudice remained. In all the twenty years, 
she had not listened to a sermon, except at 
funerals, or heard a prayer, except upon these 
occasions, and when she had been present at 
morning or evening worship in some Christian 
family. 

There were those who condemned her with- 
out mercy, counting her worse than an infidel 
for her unwomanly contempt of sacred things ; 


father merrill’s prayer meeting, ioi 

and Sometimes, in the moods which would 
occasionally steal over her, she pitied herself 
for being so unlike those whom she most 
respected. She had her ideal of what a Chris- 
tian life should be, and this was fully realized 
in her cousins. 

At first she had been angry that they would 
not retain their home, even at the sacrifice of 
extreme principles ; but she did not long in- 
dulge this feeling. The cheerfulness with 
which they accepted their present position 
was an eloquent sermon, and her regard for 
them increased with each succeeding day. It 
was such a pleasure to see them, such a happi- 
ness to know that she had in any way con- 
tributed to their comfort. Her own home 
seemed less lonely since they were near. 

She pleased herself with fancying what 
manner of woman she might have been had 
she been the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Mer- 
rill. Would she be a Christian, attending 
public worship, and with others commemorat- 
ing the death of Him who died to save the 
world ? Would she have been better, happier, 


102 


FATHER MERRILL. 


lovifig the old Bible she had carefully con- 
cealed, hoping thus to forget it ? 

She had more leisure for thinking, now that 
her fortune was assured, and work was not for 
her an actual necessity. The children, grow- 
ing up in her home, relieved her of many 
cares ; and yet these same children increased 
her perplexities. She provided for them liber- 
ally in all things. They attended school when 
school was in session. She taught them her- 
self, so far as she was able, impressing upon 
them the need of moral and mental culture. 

Here she stopped. If they had asked the 
privilege of attending church, she would have 
granted it ; as they did. not, she was careful to 
provide them with profitable reading, and in 
various ways make the Sabbath a pleasant 
day. 

Before Mr. Merrill came into the neighbor- 
hood, not one family passed her house on the 
way to church. Those who lived two or three 
miles beyond took advantage of a cross-road 
to shorten the distance to the village, and thus 
it had been comparatively easy for Dorcas 


father merrill’s prayer meeting. 103 

Armstrong to ignore the duty of public wor- 
ship. It was different now, when every Sab- 
bath morning three at least started early from 
Mr. Merrill’s for the house of God. 

The children watched them going and re- 
turning, happy if a smile or a bow acknowl- 
edged the attention. As the summer advanced, 
they were invited to spend Sabbath evenings 
with the old people ; and these visits were 
considered the rarest pleasures of the week. 
Never questioning how they spent the time, 
Miss Armstrong was glad to have them go, 
since thus she felt relieved of some responsi- 
bility. 

She was not unconscious of the influences 
silently at work around her. The proposed 
prayer meeting had been mentioned in her 
presence, and she did not doubt that she 
would be asked to attend it. Of course she 
would not go. It would be too irksome, and 
in direct opposition to her principles. This 
was her decision when she had well consid- 
ered the matter. She must continue to act 
in accordance with her principles. 


104 


FATHER MERRILL. 


The very next day these principles were put 
to the test. Soon after dinner, Mrs. Merrill 
came over, bringing her knitting, thus giving 
notice that she proposed to stop for a while. 
Maggie had met her at some distance from the 
house, assuring her of a welcome which cousin 
Dorcas was ready to give. It was no difficult 
task to persuade her to remain to tea ; and 
while Maggie was laying the table, she im- 
proved the opportunity to invite her hostess to 
attend the prayer meeting. 

“ I an’t going to urge you,” said the good 
woman, gently. “ But I do hope you’ll want 
to come. Your example would help so much 
in the neighborhood, and there’s something 
needed to make the people better. You’ve 
complained a good many times because the 
Sabbath an’t kept any better.” 

“ I know I have,” answered Dorcas, quickly. 
“ The folks the other side of the hill an’t no 
better than heathen, and I hope you’ll do 
something for them. It’s likely to me they 
never heard much preaching nor praying. I 
didn’t hear much else till after I was twenty 


father merrill's prayer meeting. 105 

years old, and — I can’t help it, cousin Mary, 
if you do think I’m dreadful wicked — I heard 
all I ever want to.” 

“ I’m sorry,” Mrs. Merrill made answer. 
“ I’ve always been sorry for you, and so has 
father. There’s such a thing as making reli- 
gion seem different from what it really is, and 
I’m afraid you’re too much prejudiced, cousin 
Dorcas. Wouldn’t it be a good plan for you 
to study the Bible for yourself, and ask God to 
show you the truth ? ” 

A variety of expressions flitted across the 
face of the woman thus addressed. She could 
not be angry, although this subject was one 
she never discussed. She asked no pity for 
the unfortunate conditions of her childhood ; 
yet she could not reject the sympathy which 
had been offered. Her judgment answered 
“ yes ” to the question asked, but her will for- 
bade its expression. 

It was long before she answered, and then 
in a deprecating tone. “ You know we don’t 
think alike about these things, cousin Mary. 
I an’t sorry you’re going to have a prayer 


io6 


FATHER MERRILL. 


meeting ; but you mustn’t expect me to come. 
I hope there’ll be good done. I’d do most 
anything else to please you and cousin Seth ; 
and I’ll be honest enough to own that your 
religion is different from what I heard about 
when I was young.” 

“It’s Christ’s religion I want you to have, 
not ours, cousin Dorcas. And you must let 
me ask you one more question. Are you will- 
ing the children should come to the prayer 
meeting ? ” 

“To be sure I am,” was the quick reply. 
“ They can go if they want to, and they could 
go to meeting Sundays for all me. They’ve 
got to live for themselves. I an’t going to 
take their souls into my hands. I’ve tried to 
do my duty by them children.” 

“You’ve done well by them, cousin Dorcas. 
Everybody says that, and it’s to your credit 
they’re so good. Father says Henry’s as 
good a boy as he knows of, and Maggie 
wouldn’t do anything wrong if she knew it. 
I’m glad you’ll let them come to the prayer 
meeting.” 


father merrill’s prayer meeting. 107 

“ Why, cousin Mary, did you think I wouldn’t ? 
I hope I an’t quite a heathen.” 

“ No, no, Dorcas,” Mrs. Merrill hastened to 
say, just as the door was opened by Maggie, 
who had done what she could in preparing for 
supper. 

A happy group gathered around the table, 
and the visit was a pleasant one, notwithstand- 
ing it was not wholly successful. 

“ We can’t expect Dorcas to change all at 
once,” said Father Merrill, when told how 
much she had acknowledged. “’Twasagood 
deal for her to say what she did about the 
children. They’ll go to meeting before long 
now, and go looking as well as other children.” 

Every family in the neighborhood was in- 
vited to attend the prayer meeting, and, of 
course, every family talked about it. “I 
wouldn’t go a step for anybody else,” remarked 
one and another. “But father and mother 
Merrill are so good, it seems too bad not to do 
as they want us to.” 

So it was that a larger company assembled 
than had been expected, while those who 


108 FATHER MERRILL. 

% 

staid away felt obliged to make some excuse 
for their absence. A good deacon and two or 
three Christian women were present ; besides 
whom, and the members of the family, there 
were none who professed to care for religion. 

Mrs. Merrill and Betsy had selected several 
familiar hymns ; and the singing of these oc- 
cupied so much time, that it might well have 
been called a praise meeting. Nearly all could 
join in the singing, and thus weariness was 
avoided. The Bible was read, appropriate re- 
marks made, and prayers offered. The meet- 
ing proved a success ; and another was ap- 
pointed, to which the young people were espe- 
cially invited. 

Dorcas Armstrong’s hired man was there, 
and as he walked home with the children, they 
talked of what they had heard. “ Didn’t you 
like it ? ” asked Maggie, eagerly ; and without 
waiting for a reply, continued, “ Seems to me I 
never had so good a time before. I mean to 
go every night, don’t you, Henry ? ” 

“ Y es, if I can,” was the reply. “ I wish 
aunt Dorcas would go with us. I don’t like to 
leave her at home all alone.” 


father merrill’s prayer meeting. 109 

“Don’t trouble yourself about her,” said the 
hired man. “ She’s able to take care of her- 
self any time, and she don’t want to hear 
about such things. She’s a good woman, 
though, and there shan’t nobody say she an’t 
when I’m round.” 

“ I didn’t say she an’t good,” exclaimed 
Maggie, somewhat troubled by the severe tone 
of her companion. 

“ I know it, child. Folks that live with 
Dorcas Armstrong don’t complain of her. 
Some of .them church members might take 
pattern by her ; but there’s Father Merrill and 
his wife, most too good to live. There was 
some folks at the meeting I shouldn’t thought 
of seeing. Them boys, now, didn’t know no 
more how to behave than so many wild In- 
juns.” 

“ I guess they liked the singing,” said Henry. 

“ I guess they did,” was the reply. “ They 
had their mouths open wide enough to take it 
all in.” 

This remark was made as they turned to- 
ward the house, and after this nothing more 


IIO 


FATHER MERRILL. 


was said of the meeting. No questions were 
asked ; and whatever Dorcas Armstrong may 
have thought, she was careful not to betray 
the least curiosity. 

Yet, long after the other members of the 
family were sleeping, she tossed restlessly 
upon her bed. She recalled cousin Mary’s 
question, “ Wouldn’t it be best to study the 
Bible for yourself, and ask God to show you 
the truth ? ” 

She had found farming very different from 
what her father had represented it to be. In- 
deed, in all business matters she acted in di- 
rect opposition to his maxims and expressed 
opinions. That he had been a poor farmer, 
was no reason why she should sneer at agri- 
cultural pursuits ; yet, because he had been a 
poor Christian, she affected to despise all re- 
ligion. It was her pride to show people that 
there was “ one Armstrong who could do as 
much as other folks ; ” and the happiest day 
of her life was that on which she paid the last' 
dollar of the “ old mortgage.” Now she asked 
no favors. On the contrary, it was her privi- 
lege to bestow favors upon others. 


father merrill’s prayer meeting, hi 

Once in her life she had wished that she 
was a Christian. A poor woman, a stranger in 
the neighborhood, was taken sick, and with her 
children was dependent upon charity. Miss 
Armstrong visited her, carrying many needed 
comforts, and watching by her bed many a 
long night. During one of these night watch- 
es, the sick woman, looking up wistfully into 
the face of her companion, said, “ I wish you’d 
pray with me. I want somebody to pray for 
me and my children. I an’t fit to die, and I 
don’t deserve to get well.” 

“ I can’t pray. I never pray,” was the un- 
welcome reply. 

“ Nor I neither ; but I thought you did, 
you’re so good. Seems as though ’twould 
make me feel better if I could hear somebody 
pray.” 

Dorcas prided herself upon being a skillful 
nurse ; but here she was at fault. In the 
kindness of her heart she wished she was a 
Christian, so that she might pray with this 
poor woman ; and never afterward did she 
stand by one who was nigh to death, without 


1 12 


FATHER MERRILL. 


being conscious of a vague desire to minister 
to the wants of the soul as well as to those of 
the body. 

How all these experiences came back to her 
as she vainly tried to forget them ! How Bible 
truths and Bible words sounded in her ears ! 
Perhaps no other was so much influenced by 
the prayer meeting as she. She hoped to hear 
nothing in regard to it ; but only the next day 
an old man, who delighted in telling news, 
came into her house, and despite her indiffer- 
ent manner, when the subject was broached, 
entertained her for more than an hour with an 
account of Father Merrill’s meeting. 

“ ’Twan’t like no meetin’ I ever went to 
afore,” he said, at length. “’Peared to me 
’twas most all singin’, and bein’ happy, and 
tellin’ about our blessins’. Father Merrill said 
we’d ought to be glad all the time, and thank- 
ful for every streak of sunshine and drop of 
rain. He said God made all on’t ; and don’t 
you think now, he said, Christ died to save 
every poor creetur, just as much as though 
there want nobody else in the world ; and he 


father merrill’s prayer meeting. 113 

knows us all by name. I couldn’t help won- 
derin’ if he remembers old Veezy Butterworth. 
S’pose he does, Dorcas ? ” 

“ It’s likely he does,” she answered shortly. 
“ But if you want to know more about it you’d 
better ask cousin Seth. He understands such 
things.” 

“ Well, you see if I should go to him he’d 
think I was under concern of mind ; and I 
an’t justly that, though what I heard last night 
set me to thinkin’. But then I’ve managed to 
get along so fur without much religion, and I 
guess I can weather it through. That’s what 
I told mother last night ; and, says I, ‘ There’s 
Dorcas Armstrong didn’t go nigh the meetin’. 
She’s got a good understandin’ of things ; so 
I guess we needn’t be riled up as long as she 
an’t.’ ” 

“ Mr. Butterworth, that an’t no way to talk,” 
exclaimed the excited woman. “ You needn’t 
pin your faith on me. I’ve a right to do as 
I’m a mind to, and we’ve all got to look out for 
ourselves. I han’t no objection to the meet- 
ing, and the rest of my folks went.” 

8 


FATHER MERRILL. 


114 

“ Well, ’twas a good meetin’, ” responded the 
old man, half forgetting his last remark. “I’m 
glad we’ve got such good folks for neighbors. 
’Twas the best job you ever done when you 
bought that farm, and you won’t be none the 
poorer for it. It seems as though them folks 
was just blessed of the Lord everywhere. 
Now there’s Ben Goddard, runnin’ his mill and 
makin’ money like house-a-fire, and Father 
Merrill at the bottom of it all.” The speaker’s 
ideas were somewhat confused, but it was evi- 
dent that the consistent piety of his neighbors 
was the inspiring theme. 

“ Cousin Seth has always been helping some- 
body ever since I can remember,” said Dorcas 
Armstrong. “ He helped me when there 
wouldn’t anybody else ; and I hope the folks 
round here will learn something from him.” 

“ So do I, and I guess we shall if he keeps 
up the meetins. There’s goin’ to be another 
next week, and mother’s goin’ to try and git 
there. Good day, Dorcas. I guess it’s time I 
was joggin’ along.” 

“ Wait a minute, Mr. Butterworth. I want 
to send something to your wife.” 


father merrill’s prayer meeting. 115 

This something was only a small package ; 
but for it the old man expressed much grat- 
itude. “ You’re a good woman to remember 
poor folks,” he said, kindly. “We’ve had a 
good many favors from you, and I han’t a 
doubt but you’ll be rewarded some time. Moth- 
er’ll be dreadful glad of some tea. She’ll 
git to’ meetin’ now. Shan’t ye go next time, 
Dorcas ? ” 

“ I don’t expect to,” was the reply. 

“ Well, good day. Perhaps you’ll change 
yer mind afore then. ’Twas a good meetin’.” 

Mr. Butterworth had intended to make some 
other calls before returning home ; but the 
package intrusted to him prevented this. He 
passed the house of Father Merrill without 
stopping, although he wished to ask some 
questions which he was sure could there be 
answered. 

As for the woman, whose kindness was pro- f 
verbial, neither her hired man nor the children 
spoke to her of the prayer meeting, until the 
appointed evening, when Henry asked if he 
and Maggie could go. 


Il6 FATHER MERRILL. 

“Yes, you can go every night, without say- 
ing more about it,” she replied. “ I’ve staid 
alone too much in my life to care about it now. 
I can always find enough to do to keep me 
from being lonesome.” 

Nevertheless she found solitude irksome ; 
and in her restless mood went to the door, 
where she could hear, now and then, a -strain 
of music. Many voices joined to swell the 
song which floated out upon the still night air, 
and involuntarily she hummed the old familiar 
tune she had learned in her childhood. 

Not to any human being would she have ac- 
knowledged that her heart was touched ; but 
God knew that the deep fountains of feeling 
were stirred. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

brent Murray’s accident. 

RENT MURRAY and his sister 
Jenny were at home exploring the 
resources of the country town, and 
half dissatisfied with their surroundings. To 
one, these were “ slow ; ” to the other, “ dull.” 

The invalid mother roused herself, to make 
an effort for the entertainment of her chil- 
dren ; but so much did she suffer in conse- 
quence, that they begged her not to think of 
them ; yet how could she avoid thinking of 
them ? Even as she lay upon her couch, with 
closed eyes, she saw them constantly before 
her. She studied their faces, recalled their 
words, and sought thus to read their charac- 
ters. 

For Jennie she felt no particular anxiety, 

ii 7 




1 1 8 FATHER MERRILL. 

but there was a recklessness in the manners 
of her son which troubled her. The flashing 
of his eye at the slightest reproof, warned her 
of danger. He was not like Harry, who, while 
winning admiration for sterner qualities, was 
yet gentle and tender. True, Brent loved his 
mother, pitied her for her sufferings, and was 
willing to make some sacrifices for her, if he 
could do this in his own way. He had been 
at home scarcely two weeks, when he repented 
of his wish to spend the winter in such a 
place, and desired his father to allow him to 
return to school. 

“ No, Brent, you will stay here,” was the 
reply. “ You need a quiet winter, and you can 
pursue your studies here as well as at school. 
Our neighbor, Mr. Stearns, is a fine scholar, 
and I can make arrangements with him to 
hear you recite.” This was said decidedly, 
Mr. Murray looking full in the face of his son, 
who dared not rebel against the decision. “ I 
have avoided speaking to you upon the sub- 
ject ; but your conduct the past year has not 
satisfied me. You have been laying the foun- 


brent Murray’s accident. 


i 19 

dations for a miserable life. Your habits are 
not what they should be, and it is time for 
an entire change. We have expected great 
things of you, and it will break your mother’s 
heart if you disappoint her.” 

The boy was angry that his father should 
thus address him, angry that his habits had 
been reported, and more angry still that he 
could not express his indignation. He went 
in search of Jennie, whom he accused of hav- 
ing betrayed him, specifying some occurrences 
not at all to his credit. 

“ Why, Brent Murray, I never knew you 
were so wicked ! ” she exclaimed. “ How could 
I tell father, when I didn’t know it myself! I 
thought you were real good, only I knew you 
had an awful temper when you were a little 
boy. You used to strike me, and order me 
round ; but I didn’t suppose you were like 
that now. You’d better go back to father, and 
tell him all the bad things you have done, and 
ask him to make you a better boy.” 

As you may imagine, Jennie would not 
meekly bear injustice from her brother. 


120 


FATHER MERRILL. 


Shocked by what he had unwittingly re- 
vealed, she shrank from hifn ; which, being 
apparent, he said, angrily, “ I didn’t come to 
you for advice.” 

“ I know it, Brent,” she answered. “ But 
don’t let us quarrel. There are only two of 
us, and we ought to be good friends now that 
mother is able to have us at home again. 
Yesterday she talked about brother Harry, 
and told me how good he was. Don’t you 
remember, Brent ? ” 

“ Yes, Jennie, I do ; and sometimes I wish 
I was like him.” 

“I wish you were,” she replied, earnestly. 
“ Mother says he never did anything to trouble 
her. You will be good, won’t you?” added 
the high-spirited, but affectionate girl, throw- 
ing her arms around her brother’s neck and 
kissing him. 

“ I’ll try, Jen,” he said, furtively brushing 
away a tear. “ I don’t mean to do anything 
very bad ; but a fellow does things sometimes 
that he’s sorry for afterward.” 

“ Then why don’t you say so right out ? ” 



Brent Murray’s Accident. — P age 122. 









f 


















































































/ 







brent Murray’s accident. 


12 1 


asked his sister. “ Tell father you are sorry, 
and he won’t blame you half so much. Come, 
now, that’s a good brother ; and tell mother 
too. She looks at you as though she was just 
ready to cry ; and now you can make her very 
happy.” 

Brent Murray was not so hardened that he 
could hear these appeals unmoved ; but he 
could and did resist them. In school he had 
many companions who sympathized with him 
in his ideas of manly independence, and fos- 
tered the reckless spirit which threatened his 
ruin. Here in the quiet village which Father 
Merrill had blessed by his presence and in- 
fluence, there was not one whom he consid- 
ered a desirable associate. There were two or 
three near his own age, who, with some train- 
ing, might be made tolerable, but who were 
now quite too straitlaced to suit him. 

When everything failed at home, his only 
resource was horseback riding ; and after his 
conversation with Jennie he started for a 
long ride, not caring where, or in what direc- 
tion. By chance he took the road leading 


122 


FATHER MERRILL. 


past Dorcas Armstrong’s farm, and was just 
opposite her house, when his horse, fretted by 
his nervous, irritable control, threw him upon 
the ground with such force that he was com- 
pletely stunned. 

A woman’s voice soothed the restive ani- 
mal, and then the speaker turned her at- 
tention to the prostrate boy. “ Served him 
right,” she muttered between her teeth, as 
she stooped to raise his head. “ Maggie, bring 
me some water, quick.” 

The first drops which fell upon the white 
face quickened the faintly throbbing pulse, and 
Brent Murray opened his eyes, only to close 
them again, while his unknown friend con- 
tinued to bathe his forehead. At length he 
attempted to lift his head from her lap. 

“ Better keep still till you’re stronger,” she 
said, commandingly ; and then, seeing Henry 
Wyman, she added, in the same tone, “ Take 
that horse into the yard, and give him a good 
rubbing down. It’s a shame for a horse to be 
abused so.” 

The owner of the horse heard this order, 


brent Murray’s accident. 123 

with the implied accusation, and endeavored 
to make some response, but his strength was 
not equal to the effort. Somewhat longer 
Dorcas Armstrong watched him, before say- 
ing, “ Now, I guess, we might as well find out 
how much you’re hurt. If there’s any bones 
broke, we’ll carry you into the house. Here, 
Hiram,” |he continued, calling to the hired 
man, who was making his way toward them, 
“we want some of your help.” 

With assistance the boy was able to stand ; 
and it was ascertained that no bones were 
broken, although he was sorely bruised and 
sadly bewildered. “ It’s the first time I was 
ever thrown from a horse,” he said, feebly. 

“You deserved it. I watched you coming 
down the road, and I was glad when your 
horse threw you off. I’m always glad to see 
folks punished for abusing a horse.” 

Brent Murray found it difficult to compre- 
hend his situation. There was nothing harsh 
or disagreeable in the voice which condemned 
him, yet he would not have presumed to 
plead his cause against it. 


124 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ He’d better come into the house, anyway,” 
said Hiram. 

“ So he had,” was the reply. “ Henry, you 
make a fire in the south room, and then put 
the horse in the stable.” 

This was soon accomplished ; and the 
young stranger found himself in a pleasant 
room, where he lay as in a dream. From time 
to time his hostess appeared, looking at him 
for a moment, and then leaving him to rest. 

Meanwhile Father Merrill had stopped on 
his way to the village, and recognizing the 
horse as one which had been purchased by 
Mr. Murray, was at no loss in regard to its 
rider. Again Dorcas Armstrong expressed 
her indignation at the abuse of the noble ani- 
mal, accompanying this with an assertion that 
she was glad the accident had occurred. 

“ I’m sorry for it all,” answered Mr. Merrill. 
Such accidents sometimes prove serious. I 
guess I’ll go in and see the boy. It’s Mr. 
Murray’s boy, an’t it ? ” said the old gentle- 
man, as he drew a chair to the couch on which 
Brent was reclining. 


brent Murray’s accident. 125 

“Yes, sir,” was the reply. 

“Are you much hurt?” 

“ No, sir, I don’t, think I am. I am a little 
bruised, and my head feels strangely. I wish 
you would please to tell me where I am.” 

“You are in Miss Dorcas Armstrong’s 
house, and I am Father Merrill.” 

“ The gentleman who used to live where 
we do ? ” 

“Yes, the very same. You han’t been at 
home long ? ” 

“ No, sir ; but I have heard of you, and I 
saw you pass one day.” 

“ I am *going that way now ; and if you 
was able, you could ride right along with me,” 
said the kind old man. 

“ I don’t know whether I could ride or not,” 
answered Brent. “ I’ll see how strong I am.” 
He raised his head from the pillow, but the 
next moment it fell back heavily, while a 
deathly pallor overspread his face. Riding 
home, in his present condition, was simply im- 
possibly. 

“ You’d better make yourself contented 


126 


FATHER MERRILL. 


where you be/’ said his hostess. “I don’t 
bear you no ill will, and I’m reckoned a good 
nurse ; so I guess we can ^get along together 
without any trouble.” 

Brent Murray looked up to the face of the 
speaker ; not a handsome face, but one to 
inspire trust and confidence. If there was 
little of softness, there was much of strength, 
while the kindly gray eyes redeemed it from 
sternness. 

“You are very kind; but I ought to go 
home if I can,” he said, hesitatingly. “ Mother 
will be anxious about me.” 

“ Send her word where you be, and what’s 
happened. Cousin Se.th, you’ll be willing to 
call and tell her.” 

“ Certain,” was the reply. “ That’ll be the 
best way ; and I’ll go right along and let the 
folks know.” 

Half an hour after Miss Armstrong inquired 
for the health of her guest, and received the 
welcome reply, “ I am very much better, thank 
you. That last dose was wonderful in its bit- 
terness and its effects.” 


brent Murray’s accident. 


127 


“ I know ’twas bitter,” said Dorcas, with a 
smile, which made her almost handsome. 
“But we have to take a good many bitter 
doses in our lives, and there an’t no use mak- 
ing a fuss over them, ^ou done pfetty well 
with yours -this time!*’ 

“ I hadn’t puch choice in the matter,” re- 
plied Brent, laughing. “ I shouldn’t think of 
disputing your authority.” 

“You an’t like that much of the time, if I 
read your face right. You an’t always ready 
to give up to other folks, and let them manage 
for you.” 

“ No, I’m not, that’s a fact,” said the occu- 
pant of the lounge, laughing faintly. “ I want 
to have my own way.” 

“ So do I ; but it an’t my way to abuse any 
living thing.” 

Brent Murray blushed ; and feeling obliged 
to make some excuse for his condujf, replied, 
“ I was out of sorts this morning.” 

“ In plain English, that means that you 
was cross,” rejoined his companion. “There’s 
a good many folks, when they feel ugly, vent 


128 


FATHER MERRILL. 


their spite on some creature that can’t pay 
them back. I tell you I wouldn’t trust a man, 
nor a woman either, that abuses a horse.” 

Dorcas had relieved her mind. She wished 
to say just this, and she had said it. Cruelty 
to animals, old people, and children, was, in 
her estimation, an unpardonable sin, which 
she would not allow to go unrebuked. 

“ I don’t know but you’re right, Miss Arm- 
strong. I’m sorry I made such a specta- 
cle of myself, and I’m sorry I have made so 
much trouble for you.” 

“I han’t had any trouble to speak of,” 
was the reply. “ But it’s lucky you -was near 
some house, and ’twas lucky cousin Seth 
came along.” 

“ How far does he live from here ? ” asked 
Brent. 

“ About a quarter of a mile. He’s a pretty 
near neighbor now, and he’s about the best 
man in the world anywhere.” 

“ I should know that by his looks ; and I’ve 
heard father say there are few who would do 
as he has done. It was too bad for him to be 


brent Murray’s accident. 129 

obliged to sell his old home. I wouldn’t have 
done it if there had been any way to pre- 
vent it.” 

“ A good many were of your mind,” an- 
swered Dorcas, as she closed the door ; and 
directly after, in reply to a question asked by 
Hiram, she said, “ He’s doing well. He’s got 
so his tongue runs faster than it will to-mor- 
row,” and, indeed, Brent was thinking much 
the same when he fell asleep. 

His father’s arrival roused him ; and after a 
few attempts at walking, it was decided that 
he was abl£ to go home. Mr. Murray ex- 
pressed his gratitude to all for their kindness, 
bestowing upon Henry a liberal reward, which 
the boy assured him would be spent for a 
book. He drove away, leading the saddled 
horse. 

“ How did this happen ? ” he asked his son. 
“ I thought Archer was well broken.” 

“ So he is,” was the quick reply. “ It was 
my own fault, and I’m certain it won’t happen 
again. Miss Armstrong said I deserved to be 
thrown, and I presume she told the truth.” 

9 


130 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ You were irritated when you left home.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, the next time you are in that mood, 
don’t be such a coward as to abuse one who 
can’t retaliate. That is the most depicable 
cowardice of which a man can be guilty. 
You are proud of your manliness, Brent. 
How was it about manliness to-day?” 

First, an angry flash of the eye, and then 
the boy’s better nature triumphed, as he said, 
“I’m ashamed of myself. I’ve done a good 
many things, last year, that I ought not to 
have done, and I am sorry for it.” 

“That pays for all, Brent,” responded the 
father, earnestly. “ God bless you, my boy, 
for saying that ! It’s the most manly act of 
your life. We’ll let the last year go for what 
it is worth. You fell into good hands to-day.” 

“ Yes, sir ; but Miss Armstrong is the 
strangest woman. Her voice is pleasant; 
but she could command a regiment of sol- 
diers, and not one dare to disobey.” 

“ She has a kind heart,” added Mr. Murray. 
“ We must invite her to come and make us 


brent Murray’s accident. 


131 

a visit. I have heard that she would never 
enter the house after her cousin left it ; but 
I hope we can persuade her to change her 
mind.” 

Not another word was spoken in regard to 
the unfortunate accident, and when they 
reached home Brent was shielded from the 
annoyance of many questions. It was ob- 
served, however, that for several days, while 
he was unable to ride, he petted his horse 
more than usual, thus making amends for his 
previous ill humor. Truth to tell, Dorcas 
Armstrong’s reproofs were not forgotten. 
They influenced him in various ways, as she 
had not thought or expected. 

“ I say, Jen, I’m going to hear Mr. Stearns 
preach next Sunday/’ he said to his sister, 
when they were the only occupants of the 
west room. What if father don’t go ! I’m 
not going to stay at home here, when there’s 
a chance of seeing somebody in the old meet- 
ing-house. If I’m to recite to Mr. Stearns, it 
won’t hurt me to hear him preach.” 

“ Father won’t like to have you go,” replied 


r 


132 


FATHER MERRILL. 


Jennie. “I know he won’t, though he don’t 
talk about it. I asked mother.” 

“ Well, I shan’t ask anybody,” was Brent’s 
response. “ We go to church when we’re at 
school, unless we can manage to get excused. 
It’s a bore to go when we can do anything 
else ; but here, father won’t have a horse out, 
or a game played, and we’d better go than 
stay at home. Don’t you want to go ? ” 

“ Of course I do. What’s the use of my 
new dresses if I can’t go somewhere to wear 
them ? But I’ll let you go first.” 

“Well, we’ll see,” said Brent; and see they 
did. 

The next Sabbath he was at the church 
door just as Mr. Merrill was entering. He 
was invited to a seat, which he accepted. Cu- 
riosity forced him to give respectful attention 
to the services, which he found neither tedious 
nor stupid. Not that he listened reverently. 
As yet reverence formed no part of his char- 
acter ; but anything was better than a quiet 
day at home. 

“ Father inquired for you,” said Jennie, in 
reply to his favorable report. 


brent Murray’s accident. 133 

“ What did he say when you told him where 
I was ?” asked Brent, eagerly. 

“ Nothing. He only looked at mother, to 
see if she knew anything about it ; and of 
course she didn’t.” 

“ Of course not. I didn’t tell her ; but I’m 
going right along every Sunday, same as other 
people, and the best thing you can do is to go 
with me.” 

As Mr. Murray had made no comments 
when told that his son was in church, so, 
afterward, he said nothing in regard to it, 
although he was somewhat troubled. In the 
city, where he formerly resided, there were 
many intelligent, cultivated people, who sym- 
pathized with him, and with whom he could 
discuss his transcendental theories. But 
here he was quite alone in his belief. His 
wife did not openly dissent from him, yet he 
knew that her heart craved a different faith. 
She would not have advised her son to at- 
tend church ; but she was glad that he had 
done so. She knew that he needed some re- 
straining influence, more constant and abiding 


134 


FATHER MERRILL. 


than any which had yet been brought to bear 
upon him, and she believed that religion 
would afford this influence. 

It would be too much to say that Brent 
Murray was moved to the performance of 
hitherto neglected duties ; but an appeal had 
been made to his manliness, which he could 
not wholly ignore. Under pretense of making 
some further acknowledgment of Miss Arm- 
strong’s kindness, he rode in the direction 
of her house. A little perplexed with the 
problems forcing themselves upon him, he was 
yet in good humor with the world and with 
his horse, when he dismounted in somewhat 
better style than on his previous visit. 

Maggie Wyman met him at the door, and, 
in answer to - his question, told him that aunt 
Dorcas had gone to grandpa Merrill’s. “ She’ll 
be home pretty soon, though,” was added. 
“ Won’t you please walk in ? ” 

“ No, I thank you. I think I’ll ride on,” he 
answered. “ Perhaps I shall call at grandpa 
Merrill’s.” 

“ They’ll like to see you. They always like 


brent Murray’s accident. 135 

to see everybody, ” she made reply, and 
watched him as he rode away, wondering if 
he would call at grandpa MerriH’s. 

A sudden fancy to explore the neighborhood 
led him past ; and riding slowly, he contrasted 
the present home of Mr. Merrill with that 
which they had formerly occupied. Thinking 
of the sacrifice they had made, he said aloud, 
“ It’s too bad. I wouldn’t have done it for 
anybody.” 

An old man, who had been hidden by an 
abrupt turn in the road, asked, respectfully, 
“ Did you speak to me, sir ? ” 

“ I didn’t know that I spoke at all,” was the 
reply. “ I must have been thinking aloud.” 

“ That’s what I do sometimes ; but young 
folks an’t apt to,” said the old man. “ That’s 
a hansum horse you’re ridin’.” 

“Yes, sir, I think it is,” answered Brent, 
who had stopped at the first word spoken by 
his wayside companion. 

“ ’Tan’t so hansum, though, as Black Jim, 
that Dorcas Armstrong raised,” said the man. 
“ Ever seen that creetur ? ” 


136 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ No, sir ; but I should like to.” 

“ Well, she’ll let you look at it, and that’s all. 
She broke that colt, and there don’t nobody 
drive it but her. She wouldn’t sell it for no 
money, and she’s able to keep it. Maybe 
you’re the youngster that got throwed off 
your horse a fortnit or so ago. I hearn tell 
of it.” 

“ Yes, sir, I am the very fellow,” was Brent’s 
reply. “ I hate to own it. I was thrown, for 
the first time, and I don’t feel very proud of 
the performance.” 

“’Tan’t likely you would;” and here the 
speaker placed both hands upon his cane, and 
taking a critical survey of horse and rider, 
said, “Your name’s Murray, an’t it? And 
your father’s him that bought Father Merrill’s 
place.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Well, I thought likely. ’Twas a bad job 
for the old folks to have to move ; but ’twas 
a good thing for us out this way. Be you 
’quainted with Father Merrill ? ” 

“ No, sir, I am not. I have seen him only 
two or three times.” 


brent Murray’s accident. 137 

“ Well, he and his wife’s the best folks we’ve 
got. They have a meetin’ to their house every 
Tuesday night, and it’s goin’ to do a heap 
of good. But I’m hinderin’ you. Good day, 
sir.” 

It was old Veezy Butterworth again going 
his rounds, to talk of the “ meetin’,” and tell 
of the good things mother Merrill had sent to 
his wife, that “chirked her up,” so that she 
could go to meeting with him. To this poor 
woman it had been like a fairy scene. Such 
singing, such prayers, and such comforting 
assurances of God’s love she had never before 
heard. 

Father Merrill did not tell these people that 
they were vile, wretched sinners, condemned 
to death. For him there was a more excel- 
lent way, although he firmly believed that only 
through Christ could man escape eternal con- 
demnation. It was not this doctrine which 
he most affirmed. Presuming upon the gen- 
eral integrity of those whom he would influ- 
ence, he appealed to their best feelings, and 
thus often moved some stubborn heart, which 


133 


FATHER MERRILL. 


would have been steeled against the severest 
denunciations. His praise was upon the lips 
of all in this remote district ; and already 
there were those who said God had sent him 
to them. 



CHAPTER IX. 

MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 

RS. MERRILL was standing in the 
door for some last words with her 
cousin when Brent Murray was 
about to pass the house for the second time. 
Reining in his horse, he bowed politely, saying, 
“ I called at your house, Miss Armstrong. I 
wished to thank you again for taking care 
of me after my deserved punishment.” 

“ I don’t want no thanks ; but if I’d been 
at home, I’d asked you to come in,” was her 
reply. Cousin Mary, this is Mr. Murray’s 
son,” she added. 

“ Good day. I’m glad to see you,” said the 
old lady, in kindly greeting. “I should be 
glad to have you come in, and I want to know 
how your mother’s health is.” 



139 


140 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ Thank you. She is as well as usual. I’ve 
already been out longer than I intended. I’ve 
been to the end of the road.” 

“ Then you’ve seen some rough land,” re- 
sponded Dorcas Armstrong. “ I don’t ever 
go that way unless I’m obliged to. There’s 
a miserable set scattered all along. They’re 
shiftless, lazy, and poor. But there ! cousin 
Mary, we’re keeping you standing, and I 
ought to be at home. Good, by.” 

Brent Murray, too, said “ good by,” after 
being invited to come out with his sister and 
make a visit. Then he accompanied Miss 
Armstrong on her way home. 

“ Y ou’ve used your horse better than you 
did- the other day,” she said, abruptly. 

“ Yes, ma’am ; I hope so,” was the reply. 
I’m ashamed of that day, and I thank you for 
reproving me. Perhaps that fall was the best 
thing ever happened to me. I met an old 
man, who told me you had a handsome horse.” 

“ Black Jim is called handsome,” replied his 
owner. “You can judge for yourself, if you’re 
a mind to stop.” 


MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES. I4I 

How small are some of the links in the 
great chain of events ! How insignificant 
they seem, and yet how strong they are ! 
How one trivial act may necessitate another, 
and one careless word awaken thoughts which 
never more shall slumber ! Are there chance 
encounters in this world ? Was it a mere 
chance that Veezy Butterworth, poor, old, and 
garrulous, spoke to Brent Murray that glorious 
autumn day ? . 

The old man thought so, in his simple way 
congratulating himself that he had talked with 
Mr. Murray’s son. He had one more item of 
news to relate. He could think aloud without 
danger of being overheard. “ Wonder if he’ll 
stop to look at Black Jim. Wonder what 
Dorcas’ll say to him. Wish he’d come to the 
meetins.” 

Anything which promised change or variety 
was eagerly welcomed by Brent Murray, and 
he was glad to see Black Jim, whom he could 
not sufficiently praise. His admiration for this 
beautiful animal quite conquered the owner’s 
prejudice, and thus was welded another link in 


142 


FATHER MERRILL. 


the chain. Before leaving, he learned the 
name of the old man with whom he had 
talked, and inquired what meeting was held 
at Mr. Merrill’s every Tuesday evening. 

“ They call it a prayer meeting,” answered 
Miss Armstrong. “ I don’t go ; but pretty 
much all the rest of the neighbors do. The 
young folks have a special invitation, and I’m 
glad there’s somewhere for them to go.” 

This ride was more fully reported than the 
previous one had been. Brent was enthusias- 
tic in his description of the people and the 
houses he had seen. Then the meeting, — “a 
prayer meeting,” — and at Father Merrill’s, 
too, the place of all others Jennie wished to 
visit. Could she go ? 

“I promised to drive out there with you 
some day, nnd I will,” said her brother. “ As 
for the meeting, I don’t know.” 

“Brent, mother asked me for my Bible 
to-day,” exclaimed Jennie, forgetting all else, 
as she recalled this strange occurrence. 

“ What did she want of it ? ” was asked in 
reply. 


MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES. I43 

“ I suppose she wanted it to read ; but she 
didn’t say so. She asked me for it just after 
father went away. Have you seen her since 
you came back ? ” 

“No, I haven’t,” was the reply to this ques- 
tion. “ I always tire her, and I don’t know 
just what to say.” 

“ Well, now, put on your slippers, and we’ll 
spend the evening with mother. Why, Brent, 
you can’t begin to think how much she loves 
you. Losing Harry was what made her sick, 
and you ought to try and fill his place. Do 
you remember Elspeth Bawn, the old Scotch 
woman, who took care of you when you were 
sick the fall before Harry died ?” 

“Yes, I do, though I haven’t thought of 
her before for a long time. She was very 
odd ; but she was a good soul. I should 
really like to see her. What made you think 
of her ? ” 

“ Mother talked about her to-day, and told 
me how Harry loved her. She wants to see 
her.” 

Brent whistled softly, exchanged his boots 


144 


FATHER MERRILL. 


for slippers, and followed Jennie into his 
mother’s room. 

“You look like Harry,” said Mrs. Murray to 
her son, as he knelt by the couch on which she 
rested. “I’ve been thinking of you and Jen- 
nie, and now let us try to have a nice evening 
together. I wish I was stronger, so that I 
could do something for you ; but now I can 
only love you more than I can tell, or you 
imagine.” 

Was there a new light in Brent Murray’s 
eyes, or did his mother look through crystal 
lenses ? Was his voice modulated to tender- 
ness, or did she hear with a quickened sense ? 
She wished to know all that interested her 
children, and in return was able to tell them 
something of the people with whom their lot 
was cast. She repeated the story of the forced 
sale of the home they now occupied. 

“ Do you believe father would have given up 
this place as Mr. Merrill did?” asked Brent 
earnestly. * 

“I don’t know,” was the reply. “Your 
father is an honest man.” 


MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 1 45 

“Yes, mother; but there’s a difference in 
honest men. Father isn’t like Mr. Merrill. 
People call Mr. Merrill a ‘ Christian,’ whatever 
that may mean. I’ve a great mind to go over 
to his meeting some evening. Can’t Jennie 
go with me ? ” 

“ Perhaps Jennie don’t care to go,” answered 
Mrs. Murray, evasively. 

“ Yes, I do, mother,” said Jennie. “ I should 
like to go almost anywhere. It’s dreadfully 
stupid here, and I wish you’d get well, so that 
we can go back to the city.” 

At this the mother moved restlessly, arran- 
ging her pillows, and in so doing, a handsomely 
bound Bible fell to the floor, thus betraying 
the fact that she had kept it near her. “ Lay 
it on the table,” she said, with some embar- 
rassment. 

“ Let me read to you, mother,” said Brent, 
pitying her confusion. “I’ll read anything 
you please, story, poetry, or the Bible.” 

“ Then read from the Bible,” she replied, in 
a relieved tone. “It is the best book in the 
world.” 

10 


I46 FATHER MERRILL. 

This evening was so pleasant, that the next 
was spent in much the same manner; and, 
strange as it may seem, Brent and Jennie 
Murray were interested in the Scripture read- 
ings. The boy’s sympathy was more strongly 
enlisted for his mother, and they came nearer 
to each other than at any time for five long, 
weary years. Mr. Murray was away four days, 
and it was wonderful how much his family 
enjoyed in his absence. 

At the end of this time the Bible was ban- 
ished to Jennie’s chamber, and a new atmos- 
phere seemed to pervade the house. With 
all this there was a sense of injustice, which 
caused the children to greet their father less 
cordially Brent, always outspoken, complained 
to his sister, declaring that he would read the 
Bible and go to meeting as much as he pleased. 
“ And I’m going to-morrow, all day,” he said 
in conclusion. “ Here I am, sixteen years old, 
and I guess it’s about time for me to know 
some things myself. I advise you to put on 
your hat and cloak to-morrow morning, and go 
with me.” 


MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 14 7 

The next morning Mr. Murray engaged his 
children in conversation, so that they could not 
leave him without actual rudeness ; and when 
the church bell rang he had just brought for- 
ward a new book for their inspection. Never- 
theless, Brent rose, saying, “ It is time for me 
to go to church.” 

“ Is it best for you to go ? ” asked his fa- 
ther, in a voice not quite steady. 

“ I think it is,” was the young man’s reply. 
“ I asked Jennie to go with me, but it is too 
late now for her to get ready.” 

“It will be time for my children to attend 
church when I go myself,” said Mr. Murray. 
“ I should prefer that you remain at home, my 
son.” 

“ But I wish to go,” answered Brent, with 
flashing eyes. “ I must do something , and the 
best people in the world attend church. I 
learned that at school. Mr. Stearns won’t be 
very likely to teach me anything wrong.” 

“He might teach you to show more respect 
for your superiors,” remarked the father, calm- 
ly ; and remembering to what dangers his son 


148 


FATHER MERRILL. 


was exposed, he added, “ I will allow you to do 
as you please ; but I am sure Jennie will pre- 
fer to remain with her mother.” 

Brent had the grace to say, “ Thank you,” 
as he left the room, and directly after he was 
walking toward the village church in no envi- 
able frame of mind. Again Father Merrill, 
who had been looking for his appearance, pro- 
vided him with a seat ; and he took his place 
among the worshiping congregation. 

To his astonishment, Mr. Stearns preached 
upon the tendency of the age to cast off all 
restraint ; and in the progress of the sermon, 
he took occasion to speak of the disrespectful 
manners of young people to their superiors in 
age and wisdom. From this it was easy to 
make the transition which brought him to the 
crowning doctrine, reverence for God ; and 
here he lingered longest, enforcing it by argu- 
ment and illustration. 

One listener felt himself personally ad- 
dressed ; and, conscious as he was that he had 
overstepped the bounds of propriety in the 
discussion with his father, he acknowledged 
the deserved rebuke. 


MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 1 49 

“ Mr. Stearns did teach me to show more 
respect for my superiors,” he said, soon after 
reaching home. “ That was the sum and sub- 
stance of his sermon, and I hope I shall profit 
by it.” 

“ I hope you will,” was Mr. Murray’s reply. 
“ Mr. Stearns is a superior man, and a good 
neighbor. As such I respect him.” 

Tuesday evening came, — a rare moonlight 
evening, — the air, clear and bracing, with just 
a reminder of winter. Now, in his old home, 
or at school, Brent Murray could not have 
been induced to enter a prayer meeting ; but 
here everything was different. He must do 
something ; and, as for ridicule, he thought 
himself quite above the criticism of country 
people. So he told Jennie that he was going 
to Mr. Merrill’s, “ whether or no.” 

He also told his father that he was going 
there, and as no questions were asked, it was 
not necessary to say for what purpose. For 
the third time Archer carried him over the 
lonely road, until he reached the place of meet- 
ing. Doors and windows were closed. He 


150 


FATHER MERRILL. 


cared for his horse, and then rapped lightly, 
when Henry Wyman opened the door, and 
showed him to a seat in the hall, which led to 
the large, old-fashioned keeping-room. 

A few stared at him curiously ; but soon all 
joined in singing “ Coronation,” forgetting 
alike stranger and friend. He listened : how 
could he do otherwise ? There were some 
voices feeble with age, some hoarse and hus- 
ky, yet the grand old melody lost nothing by 
these defects. 

No sooner had it ceased, than old Mr. But- 
terworth rose to his feet, and said, — 

“ I han’t been to no meetin’, ’cept a funeral, 
for more’n twenty year, till I come here ; and 
I want to tell you, neighbors, that I’m glad I 
come. It’s somethin’ for us poor creeturs to 
know that the great God thinks about us. 
But, neighbors, I’ve just found out that I’m a 
sinner. That makes me feel bad. But Father 
Merrill says the Saviour died, so my sins can 
be forgiven, just as much as though there 
wan’t another poor creetur in the world. 
Must be I’ve hearn tell of that afore ; but I’d 


MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES. I 5 I 

forgot all about it. Now I’m tryin’ to git hold 
on’t, so I can hold on as long as I live. I 
han’t yit, neighbors ; but I’m prayin’ for’t, and 
I want you to pray too.” 

This homely speech, so far from provoking 
a smile, moved many to tears ; and before its 
influence was lost, Father Merrill offered 
prayer. A hymn was sung, followed by some 
words of Christian exhortation ; after which 
two others expressed a desire to know more 
of the Bible and religion. There was more 
singing, more praying, more talking, and still 
Brent Murray occupied his retired corner. 
But no sooner was the doxology sung, as the 
closing exercise, than he went out quietly ; 
and before another had left the house he was 
riding away at a rapid pace. 

At home he made some excuse for not an- 
swering his sister’s questions that night ; and 
the next morning he told her she must see and 
hear for herself, as he never could describe 
“ the affair.” 

“Well, did you like it ? ” she asked. “ You 
can tell that.” 


152 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ I don’t know,” he replied. “ I mean to go 
again, and find out if I can. I didn’t speak to 
any one except Miss Armstrong’s boy.” 

Everybody said it was the strangest thing 
he should come out to that meeting ; and 
those who had not seen him were inclined to 
doubt the fact. But Henry Wyman assured 
grandpa Merrill that it really was “ the same 
one aunt Dorcas took care of.” 

Mr. Murray made no comments ; yet it was 
easy to see that he was disquieted. He mani- 
fested even more interest than usual in every- 
thing pertaining to the happiness of his fam- 
ily, planning amusements for his children, 
and providing them with an unlimited amount 
of reading. Of course they could go to Mr. 
Merrill’s. Both he and his wife wished to 
establish an intimacy with the good people 
whose praise was upon every tongue. A bas- 
ket of winter pears furnished an excuse for a 
call, which might be prolonged to a visit. 
Early in the afternoon they started, Jennie 
being in most buoyant spirits. 

“ Why, Brent, how stupid you are ! ” she ex- 


MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 1 53 

claimed, at length. “You look a great deal 
more sober than the minister, and you don’t 
half talk.” 

“ Are you sure that I am Brent Murray ? ” 
he asked, in reply, forcing himself to smile. 
“ I have some doubts on the subject.” 

“ What makes you talk so ? ” now asked his 
sister, a little impatiently. “I don’t know 
what to make of you.” 

“ You are no worse off than I am. I don’t 
know what to make of myself. If father 
would send me back to school, I guess I could 
find the Brent Murray I used to know. Per- 
haps, though, he escaped to the woods when 
Archer threw him to the ground. Any way, I 
don’t think I’ve seen him since.” This out- 
burst, and the loud whistling of a tune church- 
goers would have recognized as Coronation, so 
far relieved his feelings that he was able after- 
ward to devote himself to the entertainment 
of his sister. 

At Mr. Merrill’s they received such cordial 
assurances of welcome that they accepted the 
invitation to remain to supper. Jennie, who 


154 


FATHER MERRILL. 


was charmed with all she saw, was particu- 
larly glad to do so. She had not many ac- 
quaintances in town of her own age. Those 
whom she had met were either older than 
herself or considerable younger, so that she 
had keenly felt the want of companionship. 
Here she was delighted to find a dear old 
grandmother, such as she had never known, 
but of whom she had dreamed. 

Brent was out of doors, professing to 
be much interested in farming and stock, 
while, in reality he cared only to hear 
Mr. Merrill talk. 

"It will be a long time before this farm will 
be in as good condition as the one you left,” 
he remarked. 

" Yes,” was the reply. “ I worked on 
that twenty-eight years. I han’t as much 
time as that for this one; but it’s done 
finely this year. I’ve been greatly pros- 
pered, though it don’t look quite so pleasant 
to me here as it does where you live.” 

“ That’s a grand place. If it was only near 
the city, I should hope to have it for a home 


MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 1 5 5 

all my life. I don’t see how people live here 
one year after another.” 

“You think you couldn’t ? *’ said the old 
man, with a smile. 

“ I shouldn’t be willing to try,” answered 
his young companion. “ I want to see things 
moving faster, and have something to look 
forward to.” 

“ We have that,” was Mr. Merrill’s reply. 
“ This time of year we are getting ready for 
winter ; then, when winter comes, we take a 
little rest, and visit the neighbors. In the 
spring we make sugar, and lay our plans for 
summer’s work ; and after that everything 
comes right along till the crops are harvested, 
and we have another year’s bounty to be 
thankful for. A farmer’s life’s a busy one, 
and there an’t any reason why it shouldn’t 
be a happy one, though it an’t everybody that’s 
made for it. After all, it an’t what we do that 
makes the man or woman, so much as how we 
do. Whether we eat or drink, or whatever 
we do, we should do all to the glory of God. 
That’s the secret of a happy life, in city or 


156 


FATHER MERRILL. 


country. I don’t suppose you mean to be a 
farmer ? ” 

“ No, sir. I hope to study law.” 

“ Well, a lawyer can be a good Christian. 
One of my boys used to talk about being a 
lawyer ; but he died before he was as old as 
you are. He was just fifteen the day he died.” 

“ That was brother Harry’s age,” responded 
Brent Murray. “ I wish he had lived.” This 
last was said involuntarily, the speaker hardly 
knowing that he had uttered the words. 

“If it had been best, he would be living 
now,” said Mr. Merrill. “The issues of life 
and death are in God’s hands, and we have no 
reason to complain. If it’s his pleasure that 
some die young while others live to be old, 
we’ve all something to be thankful for. ’Twas 
a great trial to mother and me when our chil- 
dren died ; but ’twas right. It’s likely you 
expect to live to be an old man.” 

“ I don’t know, sir,” was the reply. “ I have 
never thought much about it. I suppose most 
people expect to live to be old.” 

“ A good many act as though they expected 


MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 1 57 

to live here always. They seem to forget 
there’s another world where we’re going to 
spend all eternity. I didn’t think much of 
that when I was your age ; but now I’m grow- 
ing old, I look forward to the better country.” 

The conversation was here interrupted by a 
man who came to ask advice in regard to sell- 
ing some stock, and Mr. Merrill was as ready 
to give counsel in this matter as he had been 
to speak of God’s goodness. 

“ You see your way clear through the win- 
ter ? ” he inquired of his neighbor. 

“Yes, sir, if I do as you advise,” answered 
the man. “ ’Twill be hard work, though.” 

“Don’t be afraid of hard work,” said Father 
Merrill, cheerfully. “ ’Twon’t hurt us. That’s 
what straightens out pretty much all the 
snarls in this world, when God blesses the 
work ; and I hope, Wallace, you mean to ask 
for God’s blessing.” 

“ I do mean to,” was the reply. “ I ought 
to have done it before. I’ve neglected it too 
long. I’m much obliged to you for your ad- 
vice, and I’ll follow it. If I come out right a 


i 5 8 


FATHER MERRILL. 


hundred years from now, ’twill be because you 
helped me. Good day, Father Merrill.” 

“Good day, Wallace. Come again, when 
there’s anything I can do for you.” 

Brent Murray had withdrawn a short dis- 
tance from the speakers, yet he heard the 
invitation which closed the interview, and 
looked with new interest at his host. Directly 
another neighbor came into the yard, and he 
was sure that more advice was given, and 
more words of encouragement spoken. He 
did not hear ; but he saw tears coursing down 
bronzed cheeks, and the clasp of toil-hardened 
hands. To his eyes, Father Merrill was like 
a king dispensing favors with right royal grace, 
albeit in homely guise. 

“I’m afraid you won’t think I’m very good 
company,” said the old man, turning to his 
guest. “ It’s such a pleasant day, there’s a 
good many out, and the neighbors most always 
stop when they’re going by.” 

“ I should think they would,” replied Brent, 
frankly. “ You can tell them everything they 
wish to know.” 


MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 1 59 

“ I can tell them some things,” was the re- 
sponse. “ I love to have them come to me. 
Mother and me have kept our eyes open as 
we’ve gone along through the world, and I 
guess we’ve remembered mostly what we’ve 
seen. Then we’ve always read the Bible, 
and there’s all kinds of wisdom in that. I 
find something new every time I open it. 
We couldn’t live without the Bible. I an’t 
much of a scholar ; but I try to understand 
that.” 

While they were talking, no allusion was 
made to the prayer meeting or to the Sabbath 
service. Father Merrill would not give Mr. 
Murray reason to say that his son had been 
unduly influenced. It would have been easy 
. to make a personal appeal to the young man ; 
but this was not done, although he was re- 
minded of his duty in a way that was new to 
him. At the supper table, God’s blessing was 
invoked upon the portion of his bounty pre- 
pared for their refreshment. 

“ Such a beautiful prayer, wasn’t it ? ” said 
Jennie, when this was mentioned. “I never 


i6o 


FATHER MERRILL, 


heard anybody pray like that before Wouldn’t 
mother be glad to hear him ? ” 

“ I presume she would,” answered Brent ; 
adding in the same breath, “It was a queer 
visit for us to make. Just think of our going 
to see two old people, and staying with them 
four or five hours.” 

“ Well, they an’t like any other old people I 
ever saw,” responded his sister. “You needn’t 
speak in that way of our visit. I know you 
had a good time, and I heard you tell Mrs. 
Merrill that you should come again.” 

“ So I did, and I enjoyed the visit. I cer- 
tainly shall go again.” 

After saying this, with much emphasis, her 
brother was so long silent that Jennie asked 
him if he was asleep ; a question he answered 
quickly, to the effect that he had no thought 
of sleeping. 

Indeed, for hours after he laid his head upon 
the pillow it was impossible for him to sleep. 
“ Do all to the glory of God.” This phrase 
haunted him until he began to fear it would 
forever ring in his ears, He grew angry with 


MAKING NEW ACQUAINTANCES. l6l 

himself for being so foolish. He would go on 
in the old way, and let eternity take care of 
itself. His father was a more intelligent man 
than Mr. Merrill, and his father was living only 
for this world. So he reasoned, thinking, too, 
of the ridicule he would be sure to encounter 
from his former companions should he become 
religious ; and, at length, he deliberately re- 
solved to keep himself from all religious influ- 
ences. 

After this he slept ; yet the next morning 
his first thoughts were of the dear old man 
whose words had so impressed him. He 
avoided his mother and sister, and before the 
day closed, told his father that he was ready 
to commence studying, He did not go to 
church the next Sabbath, neither did he attend 
the prayer meeting ; and when asked by Jen- 
nie the reason of this, answered that he had 
heard enough of religion for the present. 

He found it less difficult to employ his time 
pleasantly. The young people of the village, 
being more at leisure, were disposed to make 
advances toward a more intimate acquaintance 


FATHER MERRILL. 


162 

with their new neighbors ; and Brent, who 
understood his position, was soon a favorite. 
He commenced regular recitations to Mr. 
Stearns, who found him so diligent a scholar 
that the office of teacher was a mere sinecure. 




CHAPTER X. 

FRANK. CLIFFORD. 

OW should you like a classmate ? ” 
asked the clergyman, when Brent 
Murray had been reciting to him 
for about three weeks. 

“ I should like it very much/’ was the reply. 
“ Am I to have one ? ” 

“ I think so. A young relative of mine 
wishes to come here for the winter. I don’t 
know about his scholarship ; but he wrote me 
that he could make his recitations with you. 
So I shall introduce to you a friend and 
companion, an orphan boy a year older than 
yourself.” 

Frank Clifford was the name of this orphan 
boy, who was to be the fellow-student of 
Brent Murray, and his coming was eagerly 

163 



164 


FATHER MERRILL. 


anticipated. Mrs. Stearns, who had room in 
her home and heart for every new comer, was 
moved to especial efforts in his behalf ; and the 
welcome he received quite satisfied his craving 
heart. Not much of luxury or elegance could 
they give him ; but the dear home love for 
which he hungered, was meted to him in no 
stinted measure. For the ten years since his 
father’s death, his mother had been all the 
world to him, until she, too, went to that up- 
per home, where is neither sorrow nor sighing. 
Himself, his horse, and his dog were domesti- 
cated at the parsonage, and henceforth formed 
part of the good minister’s family. 

Sancho, the great Newfoundland dog, at once 
made favor with the children, delighting them 
with his good nature, and the evident compla- 
cency with which he regarded them. 

“ Cousin Frank, be your dog going to live 
here always ? ” asked a four years old boy, 
whose chubby arms were about Sancho’s neck. 

“ He will stay as long as I do, if he lives,” 
replied his master. “ Good fellow,” was added 
by way of commendation, as the animal looked 


FRANK CLIFFORD. 165 

up with an expression of affection, almost hu- 
man. 

“ Money wouldn’t buy old Sancho. Last 
summer he saved a little girl’s life, and her 
father offered me a hundred dollars for him ; 
but I must be starving before I sell him. I’d 
share my last crust with him.” 

“ You’ll let us play with him, won’t you ? ” 
was now asked. 

“ Certainly, my little cousin ; and I’ve no 
doubt you’ll be great friends. Take care of 
them. Don’t let them get hurt.” These ad- 
monitions were addressed to the dog, who 
must have understood them. Looking wist- 
fully from his master to the children, he 
wagged his tail most emphatically, and said, 
plainly as eyes may say, “You can trust me 
for that.” 

Within a week after his arrival, Frank 
Clifford commenced regular recitations, and 
proved himself quite equal, in scholarship, to 
his companion, who regarded him curiously. 
Not very robust, he was yet active, energetic, 
and earnest. Earnestness was the marked 


FATHER MERRILL. 


1 66 

trait of his character, apparent in all which he 
said or did. One read it in his handsome face, 
in his wondrously expressive eyes, and in his 
well closed lips. , Life to him was real ; as real 
in its grand endeavors as in the bright dreams 
inspired by sunshine and song. 

His mother had trained him wisely. She 
had lived for him, and in him, repressing what- 
ever tended to evil, and fostering every good 
impulse. She was a Christian ; his father 
was a Christian ; and his earliest recollections 
were of their religious teachings. It was not 
strange then, that at the age of fourteen he 
should have taken upon himself the vows 
which bound him to a life of purity, of holi- 
ness. And he did this intelligently. His 
associates had been carefully chosen ; yet he 
was not ignorant of the temptations which 
might test the strength of his principles. 
Allowed to choose his own home, his guar- 
dian felt relieved of all responsibility in re- 
gard to his future well being when Mr. and 
Mrs. Stearns signified their willingness to re- 
ceive him into their family. 


FRANK CLIFFORD. 


167 


As I have before said, Brent Murray re- 
garded him curiously. There was an indefin- 
able something about him which puzzled his 
young companion. After lessons they some- 
times talked of books and sports, Frank Clif- 
ford showing himself well versed in both, al- 
though he had few exploits to relate. 

“ You ride horseback ? ” said Brent, one day 
when they were left alone. 

“ Yes, I do,” was the reply. “ Don and 
Sancho and I could hardly exist without our 
gallops.” 

“ Don and Sancho ! ” Queer names for 
horse and dog ; but they were worthy of their 
names, and worthy of the petting bestowed 
upon them. 

Brent was much at Mr. Stearns’s, and he had 
enjoyed several rides with his new friend be- 
fore it was necessary for either to speak of 
those things wherein they failed to sympathize. 
An oath, uttered thoughtlessly by Brent, was 
the occasion of a reproof from his companion ; 
to which he answered, “I beg your pardon. 
I don’t believe in the vulgar habit of swearing 


1 68 


FATHER MERRILL. 


to help out a stupid sentence any more than 
you do.” 

“It is the sinfulness of the habit which 
troubles me more than its vulgarity,” was the 
reply. “You have committed a sin against 
God, for which you ought to ask his forgive- 
ness.” 

“ It is a very common sin,” said Brent Mur- 
ray, with affected carelessness. “ I know very 
few men who never use a profane word.” 

“ Then you must know very few Chris- 
tians.” 

“ I don’t know many,” was the response to 
this conclusion. “ There are Mr. Stearns, and 
Father Merrill, and a few others living around 
here. But there is my father. He don’t fancy 
religion, but he wouldn’t swear any more than 
the minister. Say, Clifford, what do you think 
of religion, anyway ? ” 

“ Think ! I think its the salvation of the 
world. The religion of Christ is a crown of 
glory to all who receive it.” 

“You are an enthusiast, Clifford.” 

“ That may be ; and *if so, religion is the 


FRANK CLIFFORD. 


169 


theme, of all others, which should call forth my 
enthusiasm. Why, I have heard its praise all 
my life, and seen its triumphs over death.” 

“You’re a strange fellow, Clifford. I 
wouldn’t have believed it of you, though I 
knew tSere was something about you dif- 
ferent from other 'fellows. Are you a — ” 
Here Brent paused ; but his companion, 
divining his thoughts, said quickly, “ Did you 
wish to ask me if I am a Christian ? ” 

“Yes, I did wish to ask just that, although, 
perhaps, it is not a proper question.” 

“ It is quite proper. I profess to be a Chris- 
tian ; and if I know my own heart, I try to 
live in accordance with Christ’s example and 
precepts.” 

There was no flush of shame or confusion 
upon the handsome face as this avowal was 
made. Ah, no ! Frank Clifford was not 
ashamed to acknowledge his allegiance to 
God. His companion looked at him ear- 
nestly ; and remembering his words, almost 
fancied that a crown of glory encircled his 
head. 


FATHER MERRILL. 


170 

“ What do you think of religion ? ” asked he 
who had last spoken. 

“I hardly know,” was the reply. “To tell 
the truth, I don’t know much about it. My 
father don’t believe in it, and if my mother 
does, she is careful to conceal her belief. Not 
one of us attends church > only I went two 
Sabbaths, because I was determined I would ; 
and I went to a prayer meeting at Father 
Merrill’s.” 

“ Yes, I heard cousin Stearns say there was 
a prayer meeting at Mr. Merrill’s every Tues- 
day evening, and I’m intending to go to-mor- 
row.” 

“ I don’t doubt but you’ll enjoy it ; and if I 
thought as you do, I would go with you,” said 
Brent Murray, heartily ; adding, “ Didn’t Mr. 
Stearns tell you we were a wicked set at our 
house, infidels, or something of that sort ? ” 

“ No ; he said nothing of the kind,” was 
Frank’s reply to this strange question. “He 
told me you were kind, intelligent people, to 
whom he was indebted for many favors. He 
didn’t say whether you did or did not attend 


FRANK CLIFFORD. 


171 

his church ; but he told me of the old man 
who used to live where you do, and who was 
obliged to sell the place to meet the obliga- 
tions incurred for a friend.” 

“ Yes, sir, and that man is the one every- 
body calls ‘ Father Merrill.’ He is like a king, 
and his wife like a queen. I suppose you have 
heard all about that affair, and know that he 
might have kept the place if he hadn’t been so 
conscientious.” 

“ Yes, I do, and he looks like a man who 
would do right, though the skies should fall. 
I don’t wonder everybody calls him ‘ Father 
Merrill.’ I shall ask him to consider me one 
of his younger sons.” 

“ He will. His heart is large enough to 
take in the whole town ; and there isn’t a 
man, woman, or child but feels honored by his 
notice.” 

Brent Murray cOuld think of no higher 
praise to bestow upon the good old man, 
whom he admired, and almost reverenced. 
After this he talked with his companion upon 
various subjects ; but, much to his suprise, no 


172 


FATHER MERRILL. 


further allusion was made to religion. The 
next day they met as usual, yet he received no 
invitation to attend the prayer meeting. In 
the evening he heard Don’s ringing hoofs, as 
horse and rider passed over the frozen road. 

“ Clifford has started for Father Merrill's,” 
said Brent to his sister. 

“To the prayer meeting? ” she asked, in re- 
sponse. 

“ Yes, he is a Christian,” was the reply. 

“ How do you know that, Brent ? ” 

“ Because I asked him, and he told me, as 
though it was something to be proud of.” 

“ Did he try to make a convert of you to 
his faith ? ” inquired Mr. Murray, looking up 
from the paper he held in his hand. 

“ No, sir, he did not,” was the reply. “ He 
answered my questions, and after asking me 
what I thought of religion, dropped the sub- 
ject. I don’t think I should mind being a 
Christian myself, if I could be like him. He 
is a splendid fellow ; and he never looked 
grander than when he said, * I profess to be a 
Christian.’ I suspect he has plenty of money, 


FRANK CLIFFORD. 


1 73 


by the looks of some things, though he never 
said anything about it.” 

“ I hope I shall be able to see him the next 
time he calls,” said Mrs. Murray. 

“ I hope you will,” answered Brent. “He 
just worshiped his mother, and she has been 
dead only a year.” 

“ That must be what makes him look so 
sad,” remarked Jennie. “ When he isn’t talk- 
ing he looks as though the tears were just 
coming into his eyes. I’m glad he can live at 
Mr. Stearns’s. They are such dear, good peo- 
ple anybody could feel at home with them.” 

“ And Mr. Stearns is such a fine scholar,” 
added her brother. “ That is a great deal for 
Clifford. He loves books better than I do, 
and he will give me a try before we get through 
the winter. He’s a queer fellow, though I 
shouldn’t wonder if he could talk and pray like 
a minister. I’d go over to Father Merrill’s, 
just to hear him. Wouldn’t you, Jen?” 

“ I should like to,” she answered. 

“ Well, there’s nothing to hinder. If it’s 
pleasant next Tuesday evening I’ll drive over 
and take you along.” 


174 


FATHER MERRILL. 


The mother looked anxiously at her chil- 
dren, hoping, praying, it may be, that in some 
way might come to them the influences she so 
much desired. Mr. Murray, reading her face 
as an open book, saw this, and was seriously 
annoyed. Had they been alone he would have 
given expression to his feelings ; as it was, he 
only grew cold and dignified, chilling the 
hearts of those he loved, and restraining 
further interchange of thought. They sat 
through the evening almost in silence, until 
Don’s rapid tread again gave notice that Frank 
Clifford was abroad. 

Then Brent spoke quickly. “ I wish I had 
gone with Clifford. Next Tuesday we’ll be 
sure to go, Jen, so don’t make any other en- 
gagement for the evening.’’ 

As the horseman passed Mr. Murray’s house, 
he was thinking, “ I wish all the young people 
in town had been with me ; ” and after reaching 
home he expressed this wish to Mr. Stearns. 

“ Then you must have had a good meeting,” 
replied the clergyman. 

“ Yes, sir,” was the hearty response ; “ I en- 


FRANK CLIFFORD. 


175 


joyed it, and I think every one present was 
interested. I shall make it a point to go every 
week.” 

“ And I hope you will do your part toward 
sustaining the meeting,” said Mr. Stearns. “ I 
don’t think it best to attend myself just yet. 
It is Father Merrill’s meeting, and there are a 
great many people who will hear him talk and 
pray, who wouldn’t listen to a word from me. 
If I’m not mistaken, there’s the beginning of 
a great work over there. I keep myself in- 
formed as to its progress, and when the time 
comes for me, I shall be ready to do what I 
can. You saw a motley company.” 

“ Yes, sir ; but they were eager listeners. I 
tried to say a little to the young people, and 
I saw two or three weeping. After the meet- 
ing was closed they crowded around Mr. and 
Mrs. Merrill, so that I hurried away as soon as 
possible.” 

He was wise in so doing ; for, although 
these poor people were moved to tears by his 
appeals, they were somewhat embarrassed by 
his presence. Old Mr. Butterworth, however, 


176 


FATHER MERRILL. 


quite forgot the stranger, when he told, in 
broken words, what the Lord had done for 
him, “ a poor creetur, who didn’t deserve noth- 
in’ but punishment clean through eternity.” 

“ ’Pears to me I’m all made over new,” said 
the old man. “ There don’t nothin’ seem as ’t 
used to. I can’t tell you npthin’ how it does 
seem ; only I’m jest brimful and runnin’ over 
with happiness. I don’t think much about old 
Veezy Butterworth neither. I’m thinkin’ about 
Christ and his love most the time when I’m 
awake. Why, neighbors, he died for all of ye, 
poor creeturs as ye be.” 

Blessed truth, never too often repeated, and 
never too implicitly trusted ! If only one soul 
had been enabled to grasp the glorious fullness 
of its meaning, then had not Father Merrill 
labored in vain. He acknowledged this, 
thanking God for all the way in which he 
had been led/ even to this very place. 

“I don’t doubt but Veezy ..’s a Christian,” he 
remarked. “ He an’t one to put his light un- 
der a bushel, neither. He’ll have news to tell 
worth hearing now ; and there may be some- 


FRANK CLIFFORD. 


77 


body in this town he has a special message 
for.” 

“ We’ll hope so,” answered Mrs. Merrill, 
earnestly. “ He’s been to the next house a 
good deal lately ; and Hiram told Betsy he 
talked about the meetings pretty much all the 
time he’s there. Dorcas wouldn’t hear it from 
many folks ; but then she wouldn’t really want 
to tell that old man to stop talking.” 

“ No, mother, she wouldn’t ; and then I do 
believe Dorcas has got a conscience about such 
things. She don’t want to hinder other folks 
from being Christians. She says she wants 
folks to think for themselves, and she wouldn’t 
pull Veezy back. She’ll let him talk when she 
wouldn’t hear a word from me ; and she an’t 
so much to blame neither.” 

Dorcas Armstrong had always assured her- 
self that she was not at all to blame for her 
opinions, or for ignoring the ordinances of re- 
ligion. But now she was half inclined to 
question the truth of this assurance, and 
consequently was more guarded in the expres- 
sion of her feelings, lest she might influence 


12 


i 7 8 


FATHER MERRILL. 


those about her, and thus incur the responsi- 
bility of their conduct. 

At this time old Veezy Butterworth was a 
sore trial to her. She expected him every 
Wednesday, and you may be sure he did not 
fail to make his appearance when he had such 
wonderful news to relate. It was past noon 
when he arrived, later than usual, yet his 
greeting was the same. 

“ Good day, Dorcas. What’s the good 
word ? ” 

“ I’ve sold my oats, and got the money for 
them,” she answered. 

“ Well, that’s good, Dorcas ; but ’tan’t nothin’ 
to what’s happened to me. I bleeve I’m a 
Christian ; and I’m so happy, I want to tell 
on’t to everybody. Dorcas, you’re a good 
woman, and you’ve been good to me and 
mother ; but I’m afraid you han’t got religion, 
have ye ? ” 

“No, Mr. Butterworth, I don't suppose I 
have, and what’s more, I don’t want it,” she 
replied, sharply. “ I’ve got along well enough 
without it, and I guess I shall.” 


FRANK CLIFFORD. 


179 


“ But, Dorcas, an’t ye layin’ up all yer things 
for this world ? ” asked the old man, nothing 
daunted. “ The Bible says — ” 

“ For goodness’ sake, don’t quote the Bible 
to me!” she exclaimed. “I’m glad to have 
you take comfort your own way, and I’m will- 
ing to help you along, but I don’t want you 
to talk religion to me.” 

“ But how can I help it, when it’s most all I 
think on ? ” asked her visitor, in a bewildered 
way. “ It keeps runnin’ in my mind all the 
time. I got up afore day this morning, and 
went to work, so I could git time to come over 
and let ye know what’s happened to me ; and 
now ye won’t hear me ! ” 

Here tears streamed down the old man’s 
cheeks, and covering his face with his hands, 
he wept aloud. He was bitterly disappointed. 
Dorcas Armstrong had always befriended him, 
a kind-hearted, easy-tempered man, who was 
more ready to assist a neighbor than to culti- 
vate his land, and who was never quite able to 
meet the expenses of his family without aid 
from others. 


l80 FATHER MERRILL. 

His admiration for this energetic woman, 
who had won the praise of being as good a 
farmer as there was in town, was unbounded. 
Now, his heart all aglow with the new love 
and light which had come to him, he wished 
to tell her of his strange happiness, and im- 
plore her to seek the Saviour, who had been so 
graciously revealed to him. 

He knew that she gave no heed to the stated 
ordinances of religion, but, in his simplicity, 
he had utterly failed to comprehend her deep- 
seated prejudice. He had thought her indif- 
ferent and careless, never dreaming that she 
was more and worse than this. Even now he 
could not understand her. He only knew that 
she would be offended if he talked of religion, 
and wiping away the blinding tears, he rose to 
leave. “ Good day, Dorcas,” he sobbed. “ I’m 
goin’ home to pray for ye.” 

“ Going so soon ! ” she responded, making a 
great effort to speak naturally. “ No, indeed. 
Sit down, and let’s have a neighborly chat. 
I’m glad if you’re happy, and I don’t doubt 
but what religion is a good thing for most 
folks. But, you see, / don’t want it.” 


FRANK CLIFFORD. 1 8 1 

This was the second time she had made the 
assertion that she did not want religion ; but 
even as she repeated the words, a great fear 
fell upon her. Her visitor was glad of an 
excuse for resuming his seat, and a little after 
he accepted a small parcel of tea with his 
usual thanks ; but it was impossible to engage 
him in conversation. 

“ I can’t talk about only one thing,” he said, 
in answer to some question. “ I’d better be 
goin’ ; and, Dorcas, I hope you’ll go to the 
meetins. ’Tan’t right to condemn a thing 
afore you know somethin’ about it ; and I’m 
afraid you’re makin’ a mistake about religion. 
Good day.” 



CHAPTER XI. 

A WANDERER RESCUED. 

HE first snow storm of the season. 
Not a gentle shower of feathery 
flakes falling softly upon brown 
grass and sear, dry leaves. Not the slow, 
steady heaping of rare crystals upon ever- 
green twig and moss-grown stone, until they 
wore a mantle of such dazzling whiteness as 
mortal can not fashion. Not like this was the 
first snow storm which visited the quiet coun- 
try town as autumn lapsed into winter. Roar- 
ing through forests and down hillsides swept 
the fierce north-easter, scattering here and 
there its burden, only to be swept again by 
the eddying blast, until it found lodgment in 
some cranny of the rocks or sheltered nook. 

A bitter night, when home comforts were 

182 



A WANDERER RESCUED. 1 83 

* 

dearer and home loves sweeter for the pitiless 
storm without. Old-fashioned people stirred 
the fire to a brighter blaze, and piled huge logs 
against the chimney back, drawing closer the 
shutters, and if so be they were Christians, 
thanking God for warmth and shelter. 

The stage was late by an hour. “ The wind 
was against us,” said the driver. “ If it hadn’t 
been for the mail, I’d been tempted to stop at 
the pond.” 

“ Have many passengers ? ” asked the land- 
lord. 

“Two,” was the reply. “One stopped at 
Squire Tolman’s, the other got off at the cross 
roads. I picked him up just before dark down 
in the woods. Asked him if he wanted to 
ride, and he said he hadn’t any money. Of 
course I told him‘he was welcome to a seat on 
the box, and pulled him up. He looked to 
me as though he might be hungry, though I 
couldn’t see much of his face, and ’twouldn’t 
do to ask him. I asked him two or three 
times where he was going, but either he 
didn’t hear me, or didn’t want to.” 


1 84 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ How did he look ? What did he say ? 
Where did he come from ? ” 

All these questions, and many more, were 
asked in vain. A cap pulled over his forehead, 
and a shawl muffled about his throat and chin, 
so concealed his face that one could hardly 
tell if it were white or black. As for talking, 
the storm would have prevented much conver- 
sation, even had the traveler been disposed to 
speak of himself. 

“ He was sitting on a log when I saw him,” 
said the stage driver, in answer to further 
inquiries. “ I took it he was resting and wait- 
ing for the stage, so I stopped. He had a 
valise with him.” 

“ Should you know him if you should see 
him?” 

“Guess I should, if I see him walk. He 
limped as though one leg was half a foot the 
shortest. I’m glad I give him a ride, let him 
be who he will. It’s tough work to go afoot 
through the world. That’s the way I started, 
and I didn’t have many helps neither. I used 
to think ’twould be kingdom come to drive 


A WANDERER RESCUED. 


185 


Stage ; but it’s about as Father Merrill says, 
‘’Tan’t so much difference what you do as 
how you do.’ When that stranger thanked 
me to-night I felt rich as a king, just because 
I’d given him a lift. It’s something to be able 
to help other folks.” 

If the stranger had known how kind a heart 
beat beneath the shaggy coat of his friend, the 
driver, he might, at least, have acknowledged 
that he was starving. He had not eaten a 
mouthful of cooked food for three days. He 
had not rested upon a bed for more than a 
week. Yet he was pressing on, fearing to die, 
yet fearing more to ask for charity. He was 
no nearer his destination than he had been 
when the stage driver literally dragged him to 
a seat ; and it was to avoid the village, which 
he was told was near, that he had left the 
stage. 

Now, whither ? He stood irresolute, then 
scanning the heavens, with something like 
superstition, he determined to walk in what- 
ever direction light appeared. For a moment 
there was a rift in the clouds, and he staggered 


FATHER MERRILL. 


1 86 

forward down the road leading past Dorcas 
Armstrong’s. 

In his valise was^part of an ear of corn he 
had reserved for his supper. This he had 
found by the wayside, and with it had been 
able to sustain himself through the day. 

A barn would give him shelter for the night ; 
but the barn must be remote from a house, 
else he might be seen ; and to avoid the sight 
of every human being was his first desire. 

How long he could do this he did not stop 
to question. For three weeks he had been a 
wanderer, traveling hundreds of miles, having 
reached a part of the country of which he had 
no knowledge, and where he could claim no 
kinship if he would. 

The storm beat upon him, the wind pressed 
him, the sky was leaden above him, and his 
heart was nigh to breaking. Was there, in 
the whole wide world, no resting-place for 
him ? 

He had been such a proud, ambitious boy, 
such a brave worker among his fellows ! And 
now was it all over, — the dreams of his very 


A WANDERER RESCUED. 1 87 

childhood, and the inspiring hopes of his young 
manhood ? How the thought tortured him, 
maddened him, until he ^vas ready to curse 
himself and die ! 

“ One day more,” he murmured. “ O God, 
forgive me and help me!” 

Only he was abroad that night. He might 
have shouted, even shrieked, in his agony 
without danger of being heard. The cold 
chilled his very bones ; but despair gave him 
strength. The spirit of unrest which goaded 
him was like the fearful cry ever ringing in the 
ears of him condemned to spend an eternity 
of punishment in wandering to and fro upon 
the earth. Lights streamed out into the dark- 
ness, and gates stood invitingly open, yet he 
struggled on. 

At length, when his strength was well nigh 
spent, he fancied that he saw a barn at some 
distance from the road, and toward this he 
bent his steps. He was not disappointed. A 
flock of sheep was here sheltered, and the soft 
hay offered a tempting couch for his weary 
frame. He ate of his dry corn, heaped the 


FATHER MERRILL. 


1 88 

hay upon his feet, gathered his shawl about 
him, and lay down to sleep. God pity him ! 
He was some mother’s boy. 

Mr. Merrill was dozing by the fire, when his 
wife said, “ Father, if you’re going to see to 
the cattle to-night, it’s time you went. I wish, 
though, you could stay in the house. It’s a 
dreadful night.” 

“Yes, mother; but the storm won’t hurt 
me.” 

The good woman lighted the lantern, tied a 
muffler about her husband’s neck, and opened 
the door for him, charging him not to be gone 
long. Then she sat down to her knitting, 
watching the clock to see how time passed. 
He was gone longer than usual. She went to 
the window and looked out, went to the door 
and strained her eyes, in the vain attempt to 
catch a gleam from his lantern. She was 
anxious ; and after the lapse of a full half 
hour, prepared to go in search of him. 

Meanwhile he had quite forgotten her 
charge. Having attended to the cattle, some- 
thing prompted him to look after his sheep, 


A WANDERER RESCUED. 


89 


although he had seen them safely housed be- 
fore dark. A groan and some muttered words 
arrested his steps on the threshold of the old 
barn. He paused to listen, but the mutter- 
ings were so incoherent that he could not un- 
derstand them. 

“ For God’s sake, don’t take me to prison ! ” 
was the exclamation which greeted him as he 
raised his lantern to get a better view of the 
speaker. “ I’ll go away, and never come back.” 

“ Go away, my friend ? ” said Mr. Merrill, 
kindly. “ There’s no need of your going fur- 
ther than the house. This is too cold a bed- 
room for such a night.” 

“ Yes, it’s cold,” replied his companion, with 
a shiver. “ But it’s better than a fence or a 
tree ; and I’ll be so thankful if you’ll let me 
stay here till morning.” 

“ No, my boy, I can’t let you stay here, but 
you can come to the house, and mother and 
me ’ll take care of you. Come, stand up on 
your feet ; you’d die here before morning.” 

“ It wouldn’t matter if I did,” was the reply. 

“Wouldn’t it, my friend? Have you com- 


FATHER MERRILL. 


190 

mitted your soul to God, and are you sure that 
he has pardoned your sins ? ” 

“Are you a Christian?” How earnestly 
was this question asked, and how the ques- 
tioner struggled to rise from his humble couch, 
gladly accepting the hand outstretched for his 
assistance. 

“ It’s most fifty years since I professed to be 
a Christian,” answered Father Merrill. 

“ Then I can trust you,” was the response. 

“ Certain, you can,” said the old man, with 
a quiver in his voice. “ There can’t nobody 
say that Seth Merrill ever betrayed a trust. 
But we won’t stop here to talk. I’ll take your 
valise, and we’ll get to the house soon as we can.” 

He was obliged to assist the stranger, and, 
with the wind against them, they made slow 
progress. ' Mrs. Merrill saw the light, and, 
wondering whence it came, waited for its ap- 
proach. 

“ You shouldn’t come out to-night, mother,” 
said her husband, thinking first of her com- 
fort, and then adding, “ I’ve got company with 


me. 


A WANDERER RESCUED. I9I 

She hastened * back to the house, where she 
presently welcomed the stranger, who could 
only make an inarticulate reply before he fell 
to the floor. Hunger, cold, and mental suffer- 
ing had well nigh done their work ; but he 
was with kind friends, who, stopping not to 
ask whence he came, or whither he went, be- 
stowed upon him the most careful attention. 

“ Thank you ! God bless you ! ” he mur- 
mured, when he could speak. “ I don’t de- 
serve it, but my mother does. Oh, mother ! 
mother ! ” 

“ Don’t, don’t, child. Don’t think now. 
Wait till you’re better, and then you can tell 
father and me all your trouble. Perhaps we 
can help you. We’ve had boys of our own, 
but God took them. You needn’t be a bit 
afraid to trust us. Everybody round here 
comes to us when they’re in trouble. If 
you’re very hungry, ’twon’t do for you to eat 
much,” said the same thoughtful woman, when 
her guest was seated at the table. “ Drink 
your tea, and eat that slice of toasted bread. 
You can have some more when ’twill do. I’m 
glad you come right here to-night.” 


192 


FATHER MERRILL. 


A little apart from them sat Father Merrill, 
studying the face of his guest, young, well ed- 
ucated, and possessing abilities above the aver- 
age. Thus much he read at a glance. More. 
If a criminal, not one hardened by long famil- 
iarity with vice. Tempted, it might be ; and 
wanting Christian principle, yielding to temp- 
tation ; but it was no branded outlaw from so- 
ciety who found shelter beneath his roof. 

“ You must tell me when I have eaten 
enough,” said the young man to his hostess, 
for the first time turning his eyes full upon 
her. “ I never dreamed of coming to this. It 
would kill my father and mother to know what 
I have suffered the last month.” 

“You’ve got a good father and mother,” 
Mrs. Merrill made response. 

“I have. My father is a good man ; but my 
mother is the best woman in the world, and I 
am their only son. I’ve three little sisters, 
too, good as good can be ; and they love me 
so well they think I am almost perfect. My 
God ! How have I fallen ! ” 

It was so long since he had spoken, save to 
himself in broken sentences, or in reply to 


A WANDERER RESCUED. 


193 


questions he wished to evade, that now he 
could not refrain from giving voice to some of 
the memories and regrets which thronged his 
mind. A flush of shame crimsoned his face 
as he uttered the last exclamation, yet he did 
not seek to hide his confusion. 

“ Don’t child, don’t,” said the woman by his 
side. “Take this biscuit and eat it. I guess 
it won’t hurt you.” He ate the coveted food 
greedily, then leaned back in his chair and 
closed his eyes. 

“You’d better lay down on the lounge and 
take a nap,” remarked Father Merrill. 

“ Thank you,” was the reply. “ I believe I 
am sleepy ; but I ought to tell you who I am.” 

“No matter about that till you’re rested. 
I’ll trust you till then, and there won’t be any- 
body here to-night but mother and me. I 
don’t know who you be, nor what you’ve done ; 
but I’m going to do by you the same as I 
should want anybody to do by a boy of mine 
if he was in your place. So make your mind 
easy, and take a good rest. After that I’ll 
hear what you’ve got to say.” 

13 


194 


FATHER MERRILL. 


With a murmured “ Thank you,” the stran- 
ger removed his worn, soiled boots, and lay 
down on the lounge occupying a corner of the 
room which the firelight left in shadow. 

Mr. Merrill took the old family Bible, read a 
chapter full of promises, and then knelt to 
pray. Oh, how earnestly did he pray for his 
wife, for himself, and for the stranger in their 
dwelling ! 

“ Bless us all, as we severally need ; forgive 
our sins, blot out our transgressions, and make 
us worthy to be thy disciples. Help us to do 
our whole duty, to make restitution for all 
wrongs, and rectify all mistakes. 

“ If we have been overcome by temptation, 
O Thou who wast tempted like as we are, 
show pity and forgive. And, O Lord, help us 
to confess all our sins, that they appear not in 
judgment against us. Let us not be dis- 
couraged, though we fall many times. Thou 
knowest how weak we are, while thou art 
high and lifted up. 

“ We commend ourselves to thy keeping 
this night, and we bless thee for thy mani- 


A WANDERER RESCUED. I95 

fold mercies, which are new every morning, 
and fresh every evening. Hear us, and an- 
swer us, as thou seest that we need, for 
Christ’s sake.” 

The first sentences of this prayer were 
scarcely heeded by the occupant of the 
lounge ; but to these concluding petitions he 
listened as for his life. It was what he needed 
to hear ; and the blessings craved were what, 
of all others, he most needed to receive. He 
had yielded to temptation, had fallen, and had 
been discouraged, yet there might be hope for 
him, through Christ, “ For Christ’s sake.” 
How often he had heard his father use this 
expression in the dear old home hundreds of 
miles away, where the mother who had taken 
him for her very own, although another had 
given him birth, made sunshine and gladness. 
He dreamed of this home, starting from his 
sleep as he heard the welcoming shouts of his 
sisters. The clock struck twelve. Without, 
the wind howled, and moaned, and shrieked, 
like an accusing spirit. Within, the fire 
burned low ; but there was a grateful sense 


196 FATHER MERRILL. 

of warmth and security which reassured him. 
His host, comfortably seated in a large arm- 
chair, had slept while he slept, waking when 
he gave signs of waking, and now watching 
for what might follow. The young man was 
standing, when Mr. Merrill asked, pleasantly, 
“ Have you slept ?” 

“ I guess I have,” was the hesitating reply. 
“ But I thought I was at home.” 

“ Well, you can call this home, while you’re 
here. Most any home is better than none 
such a night as this.” 

“ Most any is better than I deserve. But 
I don’t remember just how I came here. I 
went into a barn somewhere, didn’t I ? ” 

“Yes. But no matter about that now. 
Don’t you want some luncheon ? Mother left 
some on the table, against you should wake 
up. Then, if you want to go to bed, I’ll show 
you the way. There’s some slippers mother 
hunted up for you.” 

His comfort had been considered in all 
things ; and, when he was able to think con- 
nectedly, the events of the previous evening 


A WANDERER RESCUED. 


197 


were fully realized. He ate what was pro- 
vided, then took a seat by the fire, shading his 
eyes with his hand. 

“ I know I ought not to keep you up,” he 
said, at length. “ But it seems to me I shall 
go crazy if I can’t tell somebody my trouble ; 
and you ought to know that you’ve taken a 
thief into your house.” Here he paused, cov- 
ering his face, while great sobs convulsed his 
frame. “ Oh, sir, you don’t know how dreadful 
it is,” he continued, when he could command 
his voice. “ Why, I never even told a lie be- 
fore I left home, and I wouldn’t have taken a 
pin that didn’t belong to me. It don’t seem 
now as though I really did steal, though I 
know I did. I kept back fifty dollars from my 
employer. I meant to pay it, though, and I 
should if I hadn’t been detected. I didn’t 
mean to be a thief. Oh ! I wish I had died. 
It isn’t wicked to wish that, is it ? If it is, 
I’ve done so many wicked things, one more 
won’t make much difference.” 

“Yes, my boy, it will make a difference,” 
said the old man, solemnly. “ Every sin makes 


198 


FATHER MERRILL. 


a difference ; and it may be that wish was 
more wicked in the sight of God than keeping 
money that didn’t belong to you. Tell me 
how it all happened, and perhaps I can help 
you. Tell me, just as you would your father. 
But first tell me your name, and the name of 
the town where you was brought up.” 

This done, George Esty proceeded with his 
story, which was not unlike that of many 
another who has left a country home to seek 
his fortune in some busy city. He was not 
satisfied with the slow, plodding life of a farm- 
er, although no one could complain that he 
failed of his duty as a farmer’s son. He 
wanted more money, more opportunities for 
mental improvement, more knowledge of the 
world, and more tasteful surroundings. And 
to his credit, let the whole truth be told. He 
desired these quite as much for his step-mother 
and her children, as for himself. He read and 
studied whatever came within his reach, not 
so much for study’s sake as for the advantages 
knowledge might give him. 

His father, whose ambition had been con- 


A WANDERER RESCUED. 


199 


fined within narrow limits, had little -sympathy 
for the boy, who, while working diligently, was 
always looking forward to something better ; 
but his mother encouraged him to expect what 
he so much desired. It was through her influ- 
ence that he received a better education than 
that afforded by the common school ; and it 
was through her good management that he 
appeared at the Academy as well dressed 
as his fellow-students. She expected great 
things of him ; and as a scholar he had not 
disappointed her. 

At the age of twenty he went to the city, 
with strong purposes and pure motives. Con- 
scientious and truthful, he was yet not a 
Christian. Herein lay his weakness. He did 
not love God with all his soul, his mind, and 
his strength ; and whosoever fails of this, has 
no claim to be counted a follower of Christ. 

The first year he worked hard for small 
wages, and his company was little sought by 
those who were his equals in education or abil- 
ity. The second year he was advanced, with 
an increase of salary, when some met him 


200 


FATHER MERRILL. 


graciously, who had before passed by on the 
other side. He was invited to join various 
excursions for pleasure, which invitations, how- 
ever, he usually declined. Thus he passed two 
years of his city experience, meeting his ex- 
penses, and occasionally sending some token 
of remembrance to his mother and sisters. 
He attended church regularly on the Sabbath, 
spending the leisure hours of that day in 
reading some useful book. 

It was during the last half of the third year 
that he formed the acquaintance of a young 
man, older than himself, who won his confi- 
dence and admiration to an unusual degree. 
This new friend was not one who would be 
called a bad man ; on the contrary, he was 
more exemplary than most of his class ; but 
his habits were far different from those of 
George Esty. Church-going he counted a 
nuisance, although he was careful not to ex- 
press his contempt for the “ old institution ” 
before those who reverenced it. He was too 
polite and too politic thus to offend. 

Something in the manliness and freshness 


A WANDERER RESCUED. 


201 


of George Esty attracted him at first sight. 
“ Reliable,” was the word he used when speak- 
ing of Esty. “ You can just depend on him, 
through thick and thin ; and if he lives, he’ll 
make one of the solid business men of the 
city. No sham about him.” 

We will not accuse the speaker of plotting 
the downfall of one whom he so freely praised. 
Perhaps he only wished to introduce the young 
clerk into society. He may have been one of 
those who contend that young men should 
know by experience the evil ,pf the world, 
that they may the better avoid it ; that they 
should look down into the reeking pit of pol- 
lution, that they may not be suffocated by its 
fumes. 

George Esty’s lips were pure, and his heart 
true ; but he was not above temptation. It 
came to him in subtle guise. A glass of 
wine was offered when he was exhausted by 
over-exertion, and when, if ever, the system 
naturally craves a stimulant. He drank it 
thoughtlessly, and, exhilarated by its effects, 
was more brilliant than his companions had 


202 


FATHER MERRILL. 


thought possible he could be. He experienced 
some ill effects from this indulgence ; but 
he was growing over-confident of his own 
strength, and, flattered by others, he did not 
pause to consider whither he was tending. 

His expenditures were largely increased. 
His seat in church was often empty, and he 
began to think that his mother was not so 
wise as his fancy had painted her. In all this 
he was not really dissipated. Those who ad- 
vocate the moderate use of wine would have 
pronounced him very temperate. He did not 
ridicule religion or the Bible. He only said, 
by way of excuse for his changed habits, that 
there was a time for all things, and his time 
for pleasure had come. 

Of course this pleasure was mingled with 
some pains. He incurred debts, which it was 
difficult for him to pay. He was less inclined 
to hard work, while racking headaches were 
his every-day companions. Still he retained 
the confidence of his employer, who was about 
to give some tangible proof of this confidence, 
when, in an evil hour, to silence an impor- 


A WANDERER RESCUED. 


203 


tunate creditor, he retained fifty dollars paid 
for goods, making no return of the sale. 

“ I meant to pay it back,” said George Esty, 
when he reached this point in his narrative. 
“ I never kept back a cent before that, and I 
wouldn’t have done it then, if I hadn’t been 
afraid my creditor would report me to Mr. 
Wallace. I was almost crazed that day with 
headache and heartache, and I think I’ve been 
crazed ever since.” 

He had spoken rapidly, pausing only for a 
long-drawn sigh, or to recover breath, while 
his companion had asked no questions, choos- 
ing that what was told should be told freely. 
Not once did Mr. Merrill doubt the truth of 
what he heard. Not once did he suspect his 
guest of being an adventurer. 

“ I don’t know how I can tell the rest ; but 
I want you to know,” continued the stranger. 
“It was only the next day the customer came 
in who had paid me fifty dollars, and while 
talking with Mr. Wallace, spoke of his pur- 
chase. Mr. Wallace was a man that knew 
what was going on in his store every day, and 


204 


FATHER MERRILL. 


the goods I sold were something new that he 
felt anxious about. I was standing where I 
could see him, and I knew the minute it was 
mentioned. He watched me all day after 
that, and all the week. I tried to borrow the 
money, but I couldn’t. I thought I could 
pretend it was all a mistake if I could only 
manage to get the money ; and when I 
couldn’t do that, I should have gone to Mr. 
Wallace and told him the whole truth, only I 
knew he never forgave dishonesty. So I kept 
on, till one day he called me into the counting- 
room, and asked me if I had sold any of the 
new kind of goods. Then I told him all about 
it, and begged him to forgive me. I went 
down on my knees to him, and prayed for 
mercy, until, at last, he told me I was free to 
go where I pleased. I begged him to give me 
another trial, though I might have known he 
wouldn’t.” 

“ He ought to done that,” said Mr. Merrill, 
emphatically. “ If he’d been a Christian, he 
would.” 

“ I don’t know,” replied the young man. 


A WANDERER RESCUED. 205 

“He professed to be a Christian, and he never 
deceived his clerks. They knew what to de- 
pend upon. He told them, in the beginning, 
that he shotildn’t overlook any dishonesty. I 
might as well have prayed to a stone as to that 
man. He has three boys of his own, and I 
hope they never’ll need such mercy as I asked 
for. He told me I deserved to be brought to 
justice and punished. O God, how he tor- 
tured me ! ” 

The old man, who listened to this recital, 
bent forward toward the speaker, yet uttered 
not a word of comment 

“ I think Mr. Wallace was sorry for me, if 
ha was so stern. He told me he wouldn’t in- 
jure me with others. I might get employment 
where I could, and he wouldn’t interfere. But 
he knew I couldn’t get into any respectable 
store in the city, and I knew I wouldn’t go to 
any other. It was just as we were through 
work for the day that he called me into the 
counting-room, and it was dark when I came 
out. I don’t know how I got to my boarding- 
house ; but when I did get there, I* told my 


206 


FATHER MERRILL. 


landlady I shouldn’t see anybody that night, 
and locked myself into my room. I tried to 
think what I could do, or where I could go ; 
but it was all dark. I made up my mind to 
one thing. Mr. Wallace should have the fifty 
dollars that belonged to him, if I sold every- 
thing I had. 

“ My landlady was a good woman, who had 
always been kind to me, and I knew she had 
noticed the change in me ; so I told her my 
trouble, and asked her to help me. She be- 
lieved me, dear soul, and offered to sell any- 
thing for me I wanted sold. She talked to me 
some as my mother would, and she managed 
so well for me that I kept my clothes, except 
what things I’d rather be rid of than not. I 
had some pictures and some books, and a few 
pieces of furniture, and these brought enough 
to pay my board and the fifty dollars. I had 
to leave some other debts, but Mrs. Hope 
said I’d better do it. I wrote a note to Mr. 
Wallace, and she carried it, but he didn’t 
make any reply, only sent me a receipt for 
the money. I don’t suppose he was to blame ; 


A WANDERER RESCUED, 20J 

but if he had known how sorry I was, seems 
to me he would have done differently.” 

“He ought to,” added Mr. Merrill. “He 
ought to ; and it’s likely to me he’ll live to 
know it. We must forgive, as we would be 
forgiven.” 

“Yes, sir,” answered the young man, ab- 
sently. “ I couldn’t go home ; I wouldn’t do 
that ; and I couldn’t stay where I was. So I 
started, with a few dollars in my pocket, and 
took the first train that was leaving the depot. 
That was three weeks ago yesterday, and since 
then I’ve been wandering round. I rode till 
my money was almost gone, and then I walked. 
I don’t think my head has been quite right 
some of the time. I’ve found myself at night 
in the same place I started from in the morn- 
ing, and I’ve wished myself dead a thousand 
times. I haven’t slept in a house for a week, 
and for three days I’ve lived on nuts and 
apples and dry corn that I’ve picked up in 
the fields or roads. But I haven’t taken what 
I hadn’t a right to, and I’ll starve before I ever 
do that again. Oh, sir, I know you’re a Chris- 


208 


FATHER MERRILL. 


tian. I heard you pray for me to-night, and 
if you’ll tell me what to do, I’ll do it, if it’s 
ever so hard. I want to do right. God knows 
I do, if I have done wrong.” 

“ Have you prayed God to help you ? ” asked 
the aged Christian. 

“ No, sir. I’m afraid to ask him,” was the 
reply. “ I’ve no right to expect he would hear 
me. But I can’t live so. I don’t know where 
to go.” 

“ You’ll stay just where you are for the pres- 
ent, my boy, so you needn’t worry about that. 
We’re poor folks, but we can give you a home 
for a while, till we can make up our minds 
what’s best. You’ve sinned. I an’t going to 
say you han’t ; but there’s forgiveness for sin 
with God, and there’s time enough for you to 
get back your name and do something in the 
world yet. I must have time to think what’s 
best ; but the best thing you can do now is to 
go to bed and sleep, unless you want a lunch- 
eon first. We can have a cup of tea to- 
gether. I can make tea most as well as 
mother, and here’s some light biscuit that 
won’t hurt you.” 


A WANDERER RESCUED. 


209 


“ How good you are ! ” exclaimed George 
Esty, clasping his thin hands. “ I never ex- 
pected to be treated like this again ; but you 
won’t be sorry. You shan’t be sorry. I’ll 
work and pay you some way.’’ 

Scarcely were these words uttered, when 
the door of an adjoining room, which had been 
slightly ajar, was thrown wide open, and Mrs. 
Merrill appeared. 

“ Why, mother, you up and dressed ! ” said 
her husband, in surprise. 

“ Yes, father ; I’ve heard that poor boy’s 
story, and I couldn’t help coming to tell him 
how sorry I am for him. There an’t no need 
of your being discouraged,’ ? she added, to the 
young man, who was now standing, respect- 
fully, as she crossed the room to him. “ Dear 
boy, God loves you, if you have done wrong, 
and you shan’t be driven out again, to starve, 
as long as we’ve got a shelter.” He had 
striven hard to control himself, but these 
words of tenderness so moved him that he 
could make no response. He could only 
weep, feeling again the pitiless blast, and 


210 


FATHER MERRILL. 


standing again beneath a darkening sky. 
“Don’t, child, don’t,” said his hostess, sooth- 
ingly, as she smoothed back his tangled hair. 
“ You’re safe, and father ’ll find a way to 
help you. He always does. It’s my opinion 
you an’t so bad as the man you worked for. 
’Tan’t for sinners to refuse mercy to each 
other. I’m glad you come this way.” 

Was ever this woman other than glad of 
company ? Those who came with favors were 
welcomed ; and those who came for favors 
were no less cordially received. When her 
guest had succeeded in expressing something 
of his gratitude, and she had replied by as- 
suring him that everybody has a right to kind- 
ness in this world, where all ^re fed from 
God’s bounty, she spread the table with a 
generous supply of food. “ I don’t think ’twill 
do you a bit of hurt to eat all you want now,” 
she said. “ It’s most three o’clock, and I 
guess I can eat some myself. Come, father, 
set right up, and we’ll have an early break- 
fast.” 

So they ate together as friends. Then one 


A WANDERER RESCUED. 


2 1 1 


was shown to a pleasant chamber, where he 
lay down and slept in peace, while those who 
had made such sleep possible for him dis- 
cussed his interests. 

“The way’ll be made clear,” said Father 
Merrill. “ There’s a good many wouldn’t be- 
lieve his story ; but I an’t often deceived. 
I’d trust him. I watched him close, and he 
told a straight story. The town where he 
says he left his trunk an’t so far off but what 
we can find out about that ; and if I remem- 
ber right, Mr. Stearns has got a cousin living 
in the city where he says he worked. Perhaps 
’twill be best to make some inquiries there.” 

“ Yes, father ; I knew you’d think of some 
way to settle it,” replied his wife, joyfully. 
“He can stay here for the present ; and while 
John’s gone, he can help you about the chores. 
We’ll have to tell Dorcas about him, I guess, 
she’s so near, and she’ll be sure to keep his 
secret. ’Twont do to have everybody know 
how he come here.” 

“You’re right, mother. The sooner we tell 
Dorcas the better, if he concludes to stop with 
us. We’ll see before night.” 



CHAPTER XII. 

mr. Murray’s authority questioned. 

T was past noon when the stranger 
guest awoke. For more than an 
hour he lay thinking, trying to be- 
lieve that he had dreamed of crime, until all 
came back to him with such fearful distinctness 
that he could not resist the conclusion. What 
should he do ? Where should he go ? These 
questions, which it was impossible for him to 
answer, constantly recurred to him. He only 
knew he must do something. 

At length his host appeared, bearing a 
pitcher of water, towels, and a pan of coals, 
with which to light the wood heaped in the 
large fireplace. “ I thought I heard you stir- 
ring,” said the old man. “You lie still, now, 
till I make a fire. Then, when it gets to burn- 



212 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 213 

ing, you can get up and dress you. Mother 
sent up a pair of feeting. She thought, maybe, 
they wouldn’t come amiss. I hope you slept 
well.” 

“Yes, sir, I did, thank you. But you are 
too good to me.” 

“ There’s none good but One,” was the re- 
ply. “ I’ve got a plan for you, and when you 
come down we’ll talk it over.” 

How the long tongues of flame leaped up 
the wide, open chimney, brightening the 
room with a strange, weird light ! How the 
grateful heat softened the chilly air, and 
brought new hope to one who had well nigh 
despaired ! 

George Esty made a careful toilet, brushing 
from his clothes the stains of travel and the 
accumulated dust. But it was not so easy to 
banish the marks of suffering from his face. 
Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes told their 
story in forcible language. He walked with 
difficulty, and few would have recognized him 
as one whose ringing step could not be mis- 
taken. He was reading from the Bible, when 


214 


FATHER MERRILL. 


a light tap upon the door of his room inter- 
rupted him. 

It was Mrs. Merrill’s kindly face which 
greeted him, and her strong, true hand, which 
clasped his own. “ I thought, maybe, you was 
waiting for an invitation to come down,” she 
said. “ So I told father I guessed I’d come 
up and see how you was. I’ve got some 
victuals all ready for you, and father’s got 
something to say to you before he goes about 
his chores. You’d better do just as he wants 
you to. He’s called to have good judgment ; 
and he’s as good as most folks get to be in 
this world.” 

“ I shall be glad to do as he tells me,” was 
the quick response. “ I know he is good ; a&pd 
you’ve helped me already, more than I ex- 
pected any body would. But I’ve been think- 
ing you haven’t anything but my word for the 
truth of my story, and I don’t know as I 
ought to expect you to believe it.” 

“No matter about that now,” replied Mrs. 
Merrill. “ Father’d know if you crossed your- 
self. ’Tan’t much use for anybody to tell him 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 21 5 

a lie. Perhaps you ought to know that we’ve 
told cousin Dorcas about you. She lives in 
the next house, and she owns this place we 
live on. You see she’s just like one of our 
own folks, and she’d see you here, and wonder. 
So father went over and told her this morn- 
ing. She can keep a secret fifty years, if any- 
body wants her to, and she'll keep yours. 
She’s a good woman, and maybe she’ll do you 
a good turn some way.” 

It was well, perhaps, that a call from the 
kitchen should interrupt the conversation, 
and summon hostess and guest to the well- 
spread table, which received all proper at- 
tention, after which some matters of business 
were decided. Dorcas Armstrong’s hired 
man was going with a team to the town where 
George Esty had left his trunk, and it could 
be sent for without any expense. Then, Mr. 
Merrill’s hired man would be kept at home for 
several days, at least, by the sickness of his 
father, and the stranger could stay and help 
about the place, if it suited him to do so. 

“ I don’t see but what you’ve got to start 


216 


FATHER MERRILL. 


new, and work your way up,” said the old 
man. “ It’s a pity ; but it wan’t the last step 
that hurt you so much as the first. When you 
begun to drink wine } and stay away from meet- 
ing, and run in debt, you begun to go down 
hill. It’s likely to me you didn’t read the 
Bible much after that, and you forgot to say 
the prayer your mother learnt you. That’s 
the way folks go on, no matter whether they’re 
in the city or the country. Now, I don’t see 
no reason to doubt your story ; but it’s best to 
be certain, when you can, so I’m going to take 
some measures to find out.” 

“ I wish you would, sir,” was the reply. 
“ Only I should like a chance to do something 
for myself before people find out that I’m a — ” 

“Don’t say that ugly word,” interrupted 
Mr. Merrill. “ You shall have the chance, if 
you are honest, and I can help you. One 
thing, though. You said the stage-driver give 
you a lift last night. Will he be likely to 
know you again ? ” 

“I think not,” answered the young man. 
“ I kept my face muffled up, and I talked so 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 21/ 

little that he won't remember my voice. 
Then, when he saw me walk, I limped as bad 
as any lame man. I was lame, but I wouldn’t 
have limped as I did. I despised myself for 
the deception, but I wanted to be sure that he 
wouldn’t recognize me if he saw me again.” 

“ But there’s your shawl. Mother says 
there an’t one anywhere round here like it. 
May be he’ll know that. He’s a sharp fellow ; 
and ’tan’t often he picks up anybody as he did 
you. 'Twon’t be best to let everybody know, 
just yet, how you come here.” 

“ I should rather they wouldn’t know,” was 
the response. “ I’ll keep the shawl out of 
sight ; I shan’t have occasion to wear it while 
I stay here.” 

“ Maybe not,” answered Mr. Merrill. “ I’m 
going to look after the sheep now, and you 
can make yourself comfortable up stairs or 
down stairs. You’ll need to rest a day or 
two before you go to work ; and then if any- 
body asks you any questions you an’t obliged 
to tell more than you’re a mind to.” 

George Esty looked with wonder upon one 


218 


FATHER MERRILL. 


so simple and straightforward in his goodness, 
who yet guarded so shrewdly against unpleas- 
ant contingencies. The old man seemed to 
him the impersonation of all wisdom. Taking 
advantage of the privilege granted him, he re- . 
turned to his chamber, there to think of the 
past, and speculate in regard to the future. 
Presently, however, he heard a strange voice 
in the room below, and this recalled him to a 
sense of his unfortunate condition. 

Dorcas Armstrong had come over to talk 
with cousin Mary about “ that young man ; ” 
and she might well be pardoned if she gave 
less credence to his story than did those who 
heard it from his own lips. “ It don't look 
reasonable,” she said, with her usual earnest- 
ness. “ I’d taken him in, if he’d called at our 
house, but I shouldn’t done as much for him 
as you have. You don’t know but he’ll prove 
to be a state’ s-prison character.” 

“ Now, Dorcas,” replied the old lady, depre- 
catingly, “ I an’t going to blame you one bit 
for saying that, though it sounds hard. What 
did Hiram say about the trunk ? ” 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 2I9 

“ He didn’t say much. ’Tan’t his way. 
Cousin Seth told him the owner wanted it, 
and I told him that was enough for him to 
know about it. So, if there’s such a trunk at 
the tavern, he’ll bring it along. For my part, 
I don’t want to be hard on anybody ; ‘and I 
don’t doubt there’s a good many led away, just 
as that boy says he was ; but it’s strange to 
me he didn’t go where he had some friends, 
instead of straggling round the country.” 

“ Maybe,” answered Mrs. Merrill. “ But I 
guess you and • I don’t know much about it. 
Any way, that boy’s come here, and I hope 
he’ll stay till we know more about him. 
Father thinks he can find out for certain 
whether he tells the truth or not.” 

In pursuance of his intention, Mr. Merrill 
visited Mr. Stearns the next day, and found 
that the clergyman had a cousin, who was a 
wealthy merchant in the city, from which 
George Esty claimed that he had come. A 
carefully worded letter was at once dispatched 
to this merchant. Questions were asked 
which could not fail to elicit the truth, and 


220 FATHER MERRILL. 

cautions given, which a man of honor would 
feel bound to regard.’ 

A week must elapse before an answer could 
be expected, and during this time Mr. Merrill 
continued to treat the stranger as one worthy 
of confidence. John did not return ; and as it 
was no unusual thing for young men to seek 
work among the farmers, the neighbors made 
few inquiries, after being told that “ he -came 
along, and was willing to turn his hand to most 
anything.” His trunk came, marked and la- 
beled as he had described, and in due time 
Mr. Stearns rode over, bringing good tidings. 

His cousin had written a most satisfactory 
letter. The merchant knew George Esty, 
had seen him frequently in the store of Mr. 
Wallace, and could vouch for his having been 
a young man of exemplary habits. 

“ There are some rumors of a change in his 
habits the last months he was here, and I have 
been told that he left suddenly. It is quite 
possible that he yielded to some temptations 
to evil. I asked Mr. Wallace in regard to this, 
and, although he was not inclined to answer 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 


221 


my questions, he said he believed Esty to be 
scrupulously truthful.” 

After reading to Mr. and Mrs. Merrill the 
letter, some sentences of which I have tran- 
scribed, Mr. Stearns asked to see the young 
man ; who came in, wearing a farmer’s frock, 
and looking very unlike the forlorn wanderer 
who had not where to lay his head. It needed 
but the indorsement of Mr. Clapp, a man uni- 
versally respected, to substantiate his story. 

“ You knew Mr. Clapp ? ” said the clergyman. 

“ Yes, sir, I knew him as a business man, 
and I am very much obliged to you for writing 
to him about me. I can’t be thankful enough 
that I happened to come this way.” 

“ You didn’t happen to come ; God sent 
you,” responded Father Merrill, earnestly. 
“Not a sparrow falls to the ground without 
his notice, and it’s likely to me that you 
needed something to show you your own 
weakness. If you’d gone on staying away 
from meeting, and neglecting the Bible, and 
still not done anything to disgrace yourself in 
the eyes of men, you might have lost your soul. 


222 


FATHER MERRILL. 


An’t that the way a good many do, Mr. 
Stearns ? ” 

“ Yes, sir. There are many who think that 
all is well so long as their sins are such as so- 
ciety will tolerate. They forget that God, who 
looks upon the heart, has a standard of his 
own, by which he tests their characters. 
There are people who pride themselves upon 
speaking the truth and acting honestly, who 
will be covered with shame and confusion in 
the day of judgment, as they realize how vile 
they are. It may be,' my young friend, that 
what you regard as the misfortune of your life, 
will prove its greatest blessing,” continued the 
clergyman, addressing George Esty. “ Father 
Merrill may be right in his conclusion, that 
you needed something to show you your own 
weakness.” 

“ I know I did, sir,” was the reply. “ But 
that is no excuse for my crirrte.” 

“ Certainly not ; yet God sometimes allows 
us to fall into grievous sin that we may learn 
how dependent we are upon his sustaining 
grace. We are prone to forget that.” 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 223 

“ Yes, sir,” answered the young man, while 
an accusing conscience applied the words thus 
wisely spoken. The religious atmosphere he 
breathed in the home which had opened its 
doors to receive him, had wrought a wondrous 
change in his feelings. The Tuesday evening 
prayer meeting, also, with its simple services, 
had deeply impressed him. He did not scan' 
the faces of those present, but he knew, by 
unmistakable signs, that the Spirit of the Lord 
was moving upon many hearts. He learned 
the secret of Father Merrill's influence, and 
acknowledged the guiding hand of Providence 
in leading him to such a friend. 

Frank Clifford and Brent Murray were 
present at this meeting, the former with the 
hope of both doing and getting good, the lat- 
ter to while away an evening, gratify his curi- 
osity, and assert his independence. Jennie 
did not accompany him. Without being for- 
bidden to do so, it was made necessary that 
she should remain at home. 

“ I did want to go to Mr. Merrill’s this even- 
ing,” she said to her mother, when they were 


224 


FATHER MERRILL. 


left alone. “I’m sure it couldn’t do me any 
hurt. Do you think it could, mother ? ” 

“ No, my dear,” answered Mrs. Murray, with 
a sigh. “ I am glad Brent decided to go. He 
needs such influences more than you do. I 
hope the companionship of Frank Clifford will 
do him good. Do you read your Bible now, 
Jennie ? ” 

“ Not much,” was the reply. “ I liked it 
when we all read together ; but now I don’t 
care much about it. Mother, don’t you wish 
old Elspeth would come and live with us 
again ? ” 

“ I wish I could see her, my child. I do be- 
lieve she would nurse me back to health. But 
we won’t talk about her. Your father said 
there was an interesting story in the new 
magazine, and I should like to have you read 
it to me.” 

The reading was interrupted by the return 
of Brent, who had so much to report that the 
entrance of his father was unheeded. “ Clif- 
ford is a wonderful talker,” he was just saying. 
“ Why, those people out there listened to him 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 


225 


as though he was an angel ; and if there isn’t 
something in the religion he professes, it’s the 
grandest mistake I ever heard of. He says 
people who ridicule the Bible know nothing 
of it, and those who despise religion are either 
ignorant of its true nature, or willfully hard- 
ened against its truth. I don’t talk it off as 
he did,” added Brent. “ You ought to hear 
him for yourselves.” 

“ He is a young man to make such sweeping 
assertions,” remarked Mr. Murray. 

“Yes, sir; but there are a good many 
younger ones that make sweeping assertions 
on the other side ; and I couldn’t help think- 
ing that he has the best of it. Any way, he 
lives up to what he professes, and lives well ; 
while -those on the other side live bad. ’Twas 
a queer looking crowd out there ; but they 
were in dead earnest. Two or three talked, 
using the most outlandish words ; but they 
knew what they meant, and I guess the rest 
did too. ’Twas too bad you couldn’t go, Jen. 
We’ll try again next time.” 

“ Brent, do you know what you are talking 
15 


226 


FATHER MERRILL. 


about?” asked Mr. Murray, sternly. “You 
know I don’t believe in any of this nonsense, 
and don’t wish my family to have anything to 
do with it. I am a better judge of the merits 
of the case than you can be.” 

“Yes, sir ; but I think we should be allowed 
to judge for ourselves, especially if we have 
souls of our own, as most people seem to think 
we have.” 

What perversity prompted the young man 
to say this ! Astonished at his own rashness, 
he hesitated whether to leave the room or 
make an apology. He did neither. Looking 
up, his eye rested upon a picture of his dead 
brother, and instantly there flashed upon his 
.memory the teachings of Elspeth Bawn, and 
the prayer he had learned to repeat. “ I sup- 
pose you judged for yourself, father.” 

“ I don’t understand how this subject came 
up for discussion at this time,” said Mr. Mur- 
ray, evasively. “ Your mother is quite too 
weak to be excited.” 

“ I don’t wish to excite her,” was Brent’s re- 
ply. “ I love my mother, but I can’t see any 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 227 

reason why we shouldn’t talk of religion and 
the Bible, as well as other people. I don’t 
think it would trouble mother at all, if she 
didn’t hear anything said against them.” 

“ Brent, leave the room,” now commanded 
his father, thoroughly exasperated. 

The young man rose to obey, yet staid to 
clasp his mother’s hands and kiss her lips. 
Jennie followed her brother ; and then Mr. 
Murray began to upbraid his wife for the scene 
which had just taken place. 

“ I can’t bear any more,” she said, at length, 
in a husky voice. “ If you have any mercy, 
stop talking to me in that way. It is killing 
me ; and I know you are wrong. I know you 
are wrong. Oh, my poor children ! ” 

What her husband would have said in reply 
to this can not be known. The words had 
scarcely passed her lips when she swooned, 
and remained so long unconscious that he 
was obliged to call assistance. For a time it 
seemed that the soul had fled from its tene- 
ment of clay ; and it was only after a physi- 
cian had been summoned, and a powerful re- 


228 


FATHER MERRILL. 


storative administered, that Mrs. Murray was 
able to speak. Then it was only in answer to 
a question ; and, closing her eyes- wearily, she 
lay motionless. 

“Is she going to die?” asked Jennie. 

“There is no immediate danger,” was the 
reply of the good physician. “ She may be 
nearly as well as usual to-morrow.” 

Brent stood by anxiously, yet saying not a 
word. He divined the cause of his mother’s 
present suffering ; and while blaming himself, 
blamed his father still more. And Mr. Mur- 
ray, in the agony of suspense, repented the 
bitter words he had spoken to his wife. For 
the first time in their married life she turned 
from him as he stooped to address her. 

He rushed from her presence, up the stairs, 
and into an unoccupied room, where he could 
be alone. “ My God ! ” he cried, wringing his 
hands, “ is it true that I am killing my wife ? ” 
How often since Harry’s death he had silenced 
her questionings, when he knew that thus he 
threw back upon her heart a load of doubt 
and trouble she could ill bear. Killing her! 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 229 

Was it true ? “ God forgive me/’ he mur- 

mured, uttering, involuntarily, the prayer he 
contemned. He went below stairs, but his 
wife gave no sign of recognition as he entered 
her room. Brent was seated upon the couch, 
supporting her in his arms, and gazing down 
upon her with tear-dimmed eyes. 

“ She will need a good nurse with her to- . 
night,” said the physician. “ One who under- 
stands sickness.” 

Mr. Murray was about to reply that he could 
care for his wife ; when she asked, “ Do you 
think Mrs. Stearns would be willing to come ? 
She told me she would come at any time ; and 
I don’t think I should give her much trouble.” 

Brent, waiting for no permission, laid his 
mother gently down and hastened to the house 
of their neighbor. Mrs. Stearns was glad he 
came for her. She could leave home perfectly 
well; and, sooner than she was expected, she 
was returning the greeting of Mr. Murray, 
who, although he had not desired her pres- 
ence, thanked her for coming. Everything 
was arranged for the comfort of the invalid ; 


230 


FATHER MERRILL. 


and, as the hour of midnight approached, not 
a sound was heard in the house. 

“ Can’t you compose yourself to sleep ? ” 
asked Mrs. Stearns, kindly, bending over her 
patient. 

“ I don’t wish to sleep,” was the reply, 
spoken almost in a whisper. “ But, oh, Mrs. 
Stearns, I do wish you to pray with me. Ask 
God to show me the truth and help me to do 
my duty. I know you can pray, because you 
are a Christian, and I need, oh ! so much, to 
be prayed for.” 

In her eagerness the speaker had clasped 
the hand of her friend, which she still retained 
as this friend assumed the attitude of prayer. 
No well studied phrases and carefully chosen 
words formed the petition which was here pre- 
sented at the mercy-seat. It was a simple 
expression of the heart’s needs ; a prayer for 
light and strength, and a realizing sense of 
God’s presence. 

“ And do you really feel that God heard 
you ? ” asked Mrs. Murray, when the prayer 
was ended. 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED, 23 I 

“ I know that he did,” was the reply. “ I 
feel his presence, and you can safely cast all 
your cares- and perplexities upon him.” 

“ And, Mrs. Stearns, if you had made a 
promise which bound you to let some one else 
decide everything for you about religion, and 
then you couldn’t do it, would the promise 
be binding ? ” 

“ Each soul must answer for itself in the 
day of judgment,” said the Christian woman, 
after some hesitation. “ Only Christ can stand 
between the soul and God ; and no human 
being can give account for the deeds of anoth- 
er. Such a promise ought never to be made ; 
and it seems to me that when made, it would 
be more honored in the breaking than the 
keeping. But I can not conceive of any one 
making such a promise.” 

“ I made it,” whispered Mrs. Murray, so 
softly that the words were only breathed. “ I 
made it, and now my husband claims its ful- 
fillment.” 

“ God help you ! ” was the response. “ Ask 
him, and he will show you a way out of your 
troubles.” 


232 FATHER MERRILL. 

“Will he? Will he? And how shall I 
know ? ” 

“ By your inward convictions of duty.” 

This reply was not given, until after a long 
silence, during which the speaker prayed for 
wisdom. 

“ And my husband ? ” 

“ Tell him your feelings honestly, and claim 
a release from your promise. At least, that is 
what I think I should do,” added Mrs. Stearns, 
quickly. “ I will pray for you, that you may 
be guided aright.” 

“ Pray now,” said Mrs. Murray. “ Oh ! you 
have done me good. I sent for you, because I 
must talk with some one.” 

Again the voice of prayer was heard, and 
again was the question asked, “ Do you believe 
God hears you ? ” Then, after some further 
conversation, the invalid slept quietly until 
morning. 

“ I am so much better,” were the first words 
she spoke. “ Thank you, a thousand times, 
for coming to me. I remember all you said, 
and I shall try to do as you told me.” 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 233 

“ Don’t trust me too much,” was the reply. 
“ Trust God.” 

“ I will, Mrs. Stearns. I think I do ; and it 
seems to me now that I can persuade my 
whole family to trust him. I must try ; and I 
wish Mr. Stearns would talk to Brent. I am 
very anxious for him, and I am sure nothing 
but religion will keep him right in this 
world.” 

“We will do what we can for your son,” 
answered Mrs. Stearns, although she knew 
that her husband would not think best to 
make a personal appeal to young Murray. 
“Please don’t talk any more now. I will 
remember you in my prayers.” 

' “ Thank you,” was the whispered reply. 
“ Perhaps I shall sleep.” 

When the east was crimsoned with the sun’s 
first rays, the kind neighbor went into the 
hall, where she met Mr. Murray, to whom she 
reported the condition of her patient. She 
saw that he was looking haggard and worn, 
knew that there was an unusual tenderness in 
his voice ; but she did not know that he had 




234 FATHER MERRILL. 

shared her watch, listening often at the closed 
door of his wife’s room, and then turning away 
with self-accusations and fears. Once he had 
heard a murmuring voice, which reminded him 
of his mother’s prayers, and, despite all loving 
memories and all fears, his old hatred for holy 
things was* for the time, revived. 

There must be no such prayers under his 
roof. His wife must think as he did, and his 
children must allow him to think for them in 
religious matters. There should be no appeal 
from his judgment. As the head of his fam- 
ily, had he not a right to regulate their con- 
duct ? He would not doubt this right, yet 
how to effect his purpose sorely puzzled him. 
He loved his family, and he could not deny 
the fact that each possessed an individual soul, 
which mighty probably would y exist through all 
eternity. 

Brent came into the room, wearing a look 
which Mr. Murray had learned to recognize as 
indicating a determined purpose. The nature 
of that purpose was half revealed by the ques- 
tion which followed quick upon the morning 
greeting. 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 235 

“Do you really think I was to blame for 
mother’s sickness last night ? ” 

“ I think you were to blame for introducing 
a subject of conversation which always causes 
unhappiness when it is mentioned.” 

“ But why should it, father ? It don’t make 
other people unhappy. And another thing. 
I don’t wish to be disrespectful ; but .1 think 
you reproached mother for what I -had done 
and said. She had nothing to do with my 
going to the prayer meeting, and she never 
asked a question about it. If I become a 
Christian, and join the church, and take to 
preaching, the same as Mr. Stearns, there 
won’t be anybody to blame but myself ; and 
if there’s any trouble about it, I’ll bear it my- 
self I don’t know sure whether there’s any 
truth in religion or not, but I mean to find 
out, and everybody has a right to know for 
themselves. There’s something wrong about 
mother. She isn’t happy. She wants to read 
the Bible, and no one has a right to prevent 
her doing so.” 

Brent Murray had not intended to say so 


236 FATHER MERRILL. 

much as this, but having once commenced, 
the thoughts which had been revolving in his 
mind would find utterance. His father had 
been so astonished by his assertions, that it 
was not until he paused and waited for a 
reply, that one was given. 

“ And so you pretend to teach me my duty,” 
was said, coldly. 

The young man’s eyes flashed, and his lips 
quivered, as he answered, “ No, sir ; I don’t 
pretend to teach you. But I pretend to read 
what is plainly written ; and I’m not willing 
to see my mother, die, when she ought to 
live.” 

Here the entrance of Jennie interrupted 
him, and his father was glad to leave ; but it 
couldn’t be expected that the subject would be 
thus dismissed. Brent was too much excited 
to be silent, and his sister almost trembled at 
what she heard, even as she acknowledged its 
justice. 

What passed between Mr. Murray and his 
wife only God and themselves knew. He 
came to the breakfast table as if in a dream, 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 237 

eating little, and speaking only when absolutely 
necessary. Not angry did he seem, but per- 
plexed and troubled, From the table he went 
to his wife’s room, and not long after he car- 
ried her to her favorite place on the lounge, 
in what was called “ mother’s parlor.” 

There her children saw her, and Brent 
observed that his father manifested more 
than usual solicitude for her comfort. In 
the afternoon, when he returned from Mr. 
Stearns’s, there was a Bible upon the table, 
which augured well for his mother’s happi- 
ness. 

“ I am very much better,” she said, in answer 
to his inquiries. “ I hope you remembered to 
thank Mrs. Stearns for her kindness in taking 
care of me last night.” 

“ I did, mother ; and she told me to tell you 
she would come again at any time. I don’t 
see how she can, with so much to do at home ; 
but I suppose she knows.” 

“ Yes ; but I think we must show our appre- 
ciation of her kindness in something more 
substantial than words. Mr. Stearns’s salary 


238 FATHER MERRILL. 

is not very large, and they must miss what Mr. 
Merrill used to do for them.” 

“And just think, mother, of three boys and 
two little girls to be dressed, and, some way, 
they never seem shabby or dirty. I went into 
the sitting-room this afternoon, and if I could 
tell about such things, Mrs. Stearns was cut- 
ting a jacket out of an old coat. I’ve got a 
dozen old coats.” 

Mr. Murray had gone to the next town on 
business, and did not return until late. 

Frank Clifford, accompanied by Sancho, 
came in to inquire for Mrs. Murray’s health, 
and was easily persuaded to spend the even- 
ing. Talking of various subjects, he gave evi- 
dence of the home training he had received, 
making him more thoughtful than many of his 
superiors in age. 

“We shall be happy to see you at any time,” 
said Mrs. Murray, when their guest rose to go. 
“ And please tell Mrs. Stearns that I shall be 
very glad to see her, when she can find time 
to visit me.” 

The clergyman’s wife was one of those rare 


AUTHORITY QUESTIONED. 


239 


women who, either as the result of natural 
gifts or acquired habits, find time for doing 
whatever is necessary. It may be that some- 
thing was due to her husband, who gave her 
the aid of his sympathy, and in various ways 
lightened her labors. Then, too, her children, 
taught to care for themselves and each other, 
were as good-natured and happy a group as 
ever blessed a mother, who, while neglecting 
none of their needs, claimed the right to live, 
breathe, and move for her own well being. 
Of course she did not long delay her visit to 
Mrs. Murray, by whom she was welcomed as a 
dear friend. 

“You can never know how much good you 
have done me,” said the grateful woman. 
“ Y our words and your prayers gave me new 
life, and now I am going forward, with the 
Bible for my guide. That terrible promise 
was like a burden weighing me down. I am 
released from it now ; and oh ! Mrs. Stearns, 
I am so thankful to you. Ever since Harry’s 
death, I have been mourning for him. It 
seemed as though he must come back to me. 


240 


FATHER MERRILL. 


Now I would not call him back if I could. I 
believe he is in heaven, and I trust I shall go 
to him. I don’t know as I am a Christian ; 
but God seems very near to me, and I am 
willing to trust myself in his hands.” 




CHAPTER XIII. 

GEORGE ESTY AS A SCHOOL TEACHER. 


EORGE, did you ever keep school ? ” 
asked Mr. Merrill, coming into the 
house, after a long talk with one 
of the neighbors. 

“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “I taught two 
winters before I left home.” 

“ Well, think you could manage our school ? 
The master that was hired wan’t good scholar 
enough to get his papers, so the committee 
has got to hunt up somebody else. I told Mr. 
Merriam about you ; and if you want to try 
your hand with our children, I guess I can get 
the chance for you.”’ 

“ I should be very glad of it ; but I am a 
stranger, and the people may not be willing to 
trust me.” 



1 6 


241 


242 


FATHER MERRILL. ' 


“ That an’t the thing. I'll trust you, and 
the district ’ll look to me if there’s any trouble. 
You might go over to Mr. Stearns’s, and let 
him ask you some questions ; and we can go 
to-night as well as any time. I’ll call and ask 
Dorcas to come over and stay with mother.” 

George Esty had not been off the farm 
since he first set foot upon it ; and it was with 
some trepidation that he prepared to accom- 
pany his friend. But he had resolved to do 
what he could ; and sure of his ability to pass 
a respectable examination, he gained courage 
as they drove towards the village. Mr. Stearns 
was at home. Mr. Merrill told his errand, and 
business was soon dispatched. The next 
morning Mr. Merriam called at his neighbor’s, 
and before leaving had engaged a teacher for 
the winter school in district number six. 

“ I guess they was waiting for you,” said 
Mrs. Merrill, with a smile. “ School most 
always begins before this time ; but I’m glad 
it didn’t this year. Dorcas thought ’twould be 
a fine thing to have you for master, and she’s 
a good deal looked up to in the neighborhood. 


GEORGE ESTY AS A TEACHER. 243 

She wants her children to' learn. You won’t 
have no trouble about their behaving well. 
There won’t be but one trouble. I’ve got so 
used to having you round that I don’t want to 
spare you; and now John can’t come back, I 
counted on your staying.” 

“ But I thought you would board me,” re- 
plied the young man, in a tone of disappoint- 
ment. 

“ Well, that an’t the way they do, to have 
the master board at one place all the time ; but 
I guess father can manage it.” 

This was easily managed to the satisfaction 
of all concerned. The teacher was to work 
for his board, and the district have the bene- 
fit of the arrangement. During the days 
which intervened before the opening of school, 
there was much curiosity to see the new mas- 
ter ; and, as was natural, people wished to know 
something of his antecedents. Many ques- 
tions were asked, which, however, Mr. Mer- 
rill was able to answer in such a way as to 
leave no suspicion of mystery. The minister 
vouched for his moral character, reporting so 


244 


FATHER MERRILL. 


much of the letter written by Mr. Clapp, as 
seemed desirable ; so that George Esty en- 
tered upon his new duties under favorable 
auspices. 

“ I want you to open your school with 
prayer every morning.” Father Merrill said 
this, adding, “ You will, won’t you ? ” 

“ I don’t know as I can,” was the reply. “ I 
never did. Is it absolutely necessary ? ” 

“I think so,” replied the old man. “’Twill 
be a new thing here ; but the children need 
something new, and you need to ask God’s 
blessing upon your work.” 

“ But I am not a Christian, Mr. Merrill. 
How can I pray?” 

“ If you an’t a Christian, there’s so much 
the more need of your praying. That an’t 
any excuse for not doing your duty. Just re- 
member that all your life. You’re under just 
as much obligation to live a pure, holy life, as 
the best Christian in the world. If I was 
going to keep our school, shouldn’t you think 
strange if I didn’t pray with the scholars ? ”* 

“ Yes, sir ; I suppose I should.” 


GEORGE ESTY AS A TEACHER. 245 

“ Well, I shall think strange if you don’t. 
Seems to me you’ll need God’s help most as 
much as I should. There’s the children com- 
ing now, and they’ll expect you to tell a story. 
But don’t forget what I’ve said. It’s a wonder 
how them children take to you.” 

As it was Sabbath evening, Maggie and 
Henry Wyman came in, better dressed than 
usual, each bringing a new book, which aunt 
Dorcas had bought for them. Room was 
made around the table ; grandpa Merrill heard 
them recite their verses, and then the books 
were examined. After this Maggie asked for 
the story Mr. Esty had promised to tell them ; 
and although the young man would have much 
preferred to keep silence, the interest of his 
audience soon inspired him, so that he forgot 
all else. 

The next morning half a hundred scholars 
greeted the master ; some timidly, scarcely 
daring to raise their eyes to his face, and 
others with a bold, unblushing stare ; while a 
few said, “ Good morning, sir.” 

At a signal from him seats were quickly 


246 


FATHER MERRILL. 


taken ; and at the second rap quiet prevailed, 
while he looked around upon his companions. 
He opened the Bible, read a few verses, and 
then clasping his hands, said, “ Let us pray.” 
To do this was less difficult than he had feared, 
and the influence upon those who looked and 
listened was truly wonderful. As he prayed 
earnestly that the blessing of God would rest 
hpon teacher and scholars, he felt strengthened 
for his duties, which were cheerfully per- 
formed. At night he could say, with all sin- 
cerity, that it had been a pleasant day. 

And what report did the children carry to 
their homes ? As various as were the speak- 
ers, since no two would receive quite the same 
impression. Yet all were agreed in thinking 
that *“ they’d got to mind the new master ; ” 
and this conclusion being reached, it would be 
easy for him to enforce obedience, especially as 
it was conceded on all hands that he was a 
first-rate scholar. 

About this time he received letters from 
home, in answer to one written by himself, 
and indorsed by Mr. Stearns. His parents 


GEORGE ESTY AS A TEACHER. 247 

deeply grieved and mortified though they were, 
did not reproach him, or question his wisdom 
in going among strangers. 

“You must live for yourself,” wrote his 
mother. ' “ But remember, my son, that not a 
day passes when I don’t pray God to make 
you a Christian. I want you to succeed in 
the world, and I believe you can yet, for all 
that’s happened ; but more than anything else, 
I want you to be a Christian. Your trouble 
will be over then, for God prospers all those 
who seek his blessing upon honest, faithful, 
persevering labor.” 

“Your mother’s got the right of it,” re- 
marked Father Merrill, to whom this letter 
was read. “ Folks needn’t tell me that Chris- 
tians have to give up everything, and carry a 
cross all through this world for the sake of 
wearing a crown in another. ’Tan’t so. The 
Christian stands a better chance for getting a 
good living, and prospering in the world, than 
one that an’t a Christian. If a man’s lazy, or , 
shiftless, or a bad calculator, if he’s a member 
of the church there’ll be somebody ready to 


248 


FATHER MERRILL. 


hold him up ’longside of some forehanded 
man, that don’t make no pretensions to re- 
ligion. Han’t you ever seen that done, 
George ? ” 

“Yes, sir, I have,” was ’the reply; “but I 
never thought of it in that way.” 

“ Well, I have, a good many times ; and it’s 
strange to me folks don’t see how inconsistent 
’tis ; as though praying and reading the Bible 
ever hindered a man’s crops growing, or made 
his stock turn out bad. But I’ve seen a good 
many men that turned right round after they 
were converted, and went to work with such a 
good will that their luck changed, as they 
called it ; though, for my part, I don’t believe 
in luck. We’ve got to look at things in the 
long run, to calculate what they’re worth. If 
a man makes light weight, or short measure, 
he’ll, maybe, get more money for one year ; 
but that’ll be about all, and ten chances to one 
if he don’t get found out too soon for that. 
And getting rich, any way, by underhand 
work, don’t bring a blessing with it. Things 
has changed since Testament times, when the 


GEORGE ESTY AS A TEACHER. 249 

disciples had to lay down their lives to prove 
their faith. For my part, I don’t see no great 
self-denial in being a Christian nowadays, 
and I don’t like to hear so much talk about 
crosses and fiery trials. We don’t live in mar- 
tyr times.” 

So far as his influence extended, Father 
Merrill preached a strong, life-giving religion, 
which should quicken the dry bones of sloth 
and idleness, and inspire its believers with 
new zeal and earnestness in all honest labor. 
True, none knew better than himself that it is 
not easy to keep in subjection the lower na- 
ture, while the Christian reaches up to the 
heights, from whence cometh salvation ; but 
in his sometimes homely way, he contended 
that even this involved less self-denial than the 
opposite course. He recommended godliness, 
both for the life that now is, and for that 
which is to come. 

“You see,” continued the old man, “if we 
could get this neighborhood converted, there’d 
be better farmers all along the road. The 
barns would be patched up, and the houses 


250 FATHER MERRILL. 

would look better, inside and out. There’s old 
Veezy Butterworth ; now I shall be disap- 
pointed' if he don’t go to work next spring, and 
pick up the stones on his land, and raise some 
decent crops. He han’t been round lately, 
except Tuesday nights. Mother, do you 
know anything about him ? ” 

“ Dorcas said Hiram see him picking up 
stones yesterday. He said he’d got one field 
so it looked pretty smooth, and he meant to 
keep on till snow comes.” 

“Well, I hope that won’t be long,” re- 
sponded Mr. Merrill. “Snow’s held off re- 
markable. We han’t had nothing yet but little 
flurries, with strong winds ; and I’m hoping 
for a good thick coat.” 

The weeks went by prosperously. School 
was giving satisfaction, and people were glad 
that the young man happened to come along 
when he did. The children were ready to be- 
lieve whatever he told them, and do whatever 
he desired. There was good progress, without 
blows or hard words. Altogether, the neigh- 
borhood was “ looking up.” 


GEORGE ESTY AS A TEACHER. 


251 


The prayer meetings exerted an influence 
upon the school, and the school helped to give 
tone to the meetings. These were well sus- 
tained, many young people coming from differ- 
ent parts of the town, and all giving earnest 
attention. Frank Clifford was always present, 
Brent Murray occasionally, and twice Jennie 
had accompanied her brother. 

Dorcas Armstrong was the only person in 
the neighborhood who seemed to remain en- 
tirely unmoved. Every Tuesday evening she 
sat down alone, resolved to forget what was 
going on around her. Mr. Butterworth did 
not come on Wednesday to tell her what he 
had heard. He didn’t “ want Dorcas to have 
no hard feelin’s agin him,” and as he “ couldn’t 
keep from talkin’ about the meetin’,” he ceased 
his visits. 

After the first heavy snow, feeling somewhat 
anxious about him, and having heard the chil- 
dren say that he had been absent from one 
prayer meeting, she drove over to his home. 
It was a poor, tumble-down looking place, with 
rickety sheds and prostrate fences. There 


252 


FATHER MERRILL. 


were no paths about the house j — only the foot- 
prints of the owner, and a shed track, leading 
to a wood lot not far distant. 

Mrs. Butterworth opened a sheltered door, 
and greeted her visitor. “ For massy sake ! 
who’d a thought of seem’ you. I’m proper 
glad, though. I wish he was to home to take 
care of your horse ; but he an’t.” 

“ I can take care of my own horse,” was the 
reply. “ I’m used to it, and here’s a good 
place all ready for him.” 

“ Yes, he’s been to work there all through 
the storm, clearin’ out, and you’ve no idee 
what a mess of dry wood he found. ’Twas a 
massy to us, too, ’cause we han’t got much. 
He’s wonderful changed, Dorcas.” 

“ Well, I’m glad of it,” answered the visitor, 
a little impatiently, stamping the snow from 
her feet. “ You’ve got a good fire,” she added, 
as they entered the kitchen. 

“Yes, we have most everything good now. 
Take off your things. I’m proper glad you 
come. He’ll be home ’fore long. You was 
plannin’ to stop a spell, wan’t you ? ” 


GEORGE ESTY AS A TEACHER. 253 

“ I hadn’t any plans about it. ’Twas so long 
since Mr. Butterworth made us a visit, I 
thought I’d come over and see what’s the 
trouble.” 

“ There an’t no trouble, Dorcas — not a 
mite. But you see he kind o’ thought you 
didn’t want to hear about the meetin’s, and 
he’s so full on’t he couldn’t help talkin’ — so 
he staid away.” 

“ But the children said he wan’t out last 
Tuesday night.” 

“ No ; he’d been hard to work all day, and I 
told him he’d better stay to home, but I shan’t 
say nothin’ agin ; he didn’t take no comfort 
restin’, and he’ll go next time for all me. He’s 
gone to the wood lot now. T’other day he 
picked up a heap of branches, and he’s goin’ 
to bring ’em up. He’ll keep the fire goin’.” 

“ Well, that’s a good thing,” said Dorcas, 
and looking around she observed that some 
improvement had been made in other respects. 
The most noticeable feature of the room was- a 
small stand, occupying a warm corner, and 
upon it was an open Bible. The clumsily 


254 


FATHER MERRILL. 


mounted glasses resting on its pages were 
Mr. Butterworth’s, and his wife was careful not 
to disturb them as she moved the stand to 
make place for a rocking-chair. 

“ I guess I’ll empty my basket first,” re- 
marked the guest, when she was invited to a 
seat in this, the only really comfortable chair 
the house afforded. “ I brought over a few 
little things.” 

“ Well, now, Dorcas, I don’t call them little 
things. They’ll do us heaps of good, and I’m 
much obleeged to you, and so he’ll be. Miss 
Merrill, now, she sent us some tea, that I’ve 
been keepin’ ’gainst time o’ need. You’re 
good to think on us, Dorcas. Seems as 
though folks was better’n they used to be, 
though you was always good. Now, shan’t I 
git dinner, and you eat with us, ’fore you go 
home ? ’Twould be neighborly, and he’d 
like it.” 

“ Yes, Miss Butterworth, you can get din- 
ner, and we’ll have a cup of tea together,” was 
the reply which gladdened this poor woman. 

“ I an’t in any hurry. Hiram’s keeping 


GEORGE ESTY AS A TEACHER. 255 

house, with a bad cold, so I could leave just 
as well as not.” 

“ Them children of your’n are to school, 
an’t they ? ” 

“ Yes ; they won’t stay at home so long as 
this master keeps, if they’re able to go.” 

“Well, that’s what all the neighbors say, 
and I’m proper glad we’ve got such a good 
master. It’s all come through havin’ Father 
Merrill out here, too, han’t it, Dorcas ? It 
beats me how things has changed. There’s 
that Mason farm now. They say it’s turned 
off good crops, and he’s kind o’ waking up 
’bout our’n. Guess he’s been follerin’ some o’ 
your advice. He’s calculatin’ ready ’bout next 
spring.” 

The best of everything in the house was 
brought forward to do honor to the occasion ; 
and by the time dinner was on the table Mr. 
Butterworth had returned from the wood lot, 
and made himself as presentable as circum- 
stances would allow. He was glad to see 
Dorcas, as he said, in his poor way ; but when 
seated at the table he seemed somewhat em- 


256 


FATHER MERRILL. 


barrassed, while his wife looked at him ex- 
pectantly. One deprecating glance at their 
guest, and then he prayed that God wotild 
bless the food before them, and give them 
thankful hearts. 

“ I didn’t know but you were sick,” remarked 
the visitor, to break the awkward silence 
which followed. 

“No, I han’t been sick,” was the reply. 
“ I’ve been busy, and then my mind was run- 
nin’ purty much on one thing, and I thought 
’twan’t best to come your way. But I’m glad 
to see ye, Dorcas.” 

“ I see you’ve been fixing up round your 
house.” 

** Yes, I’ve been tryin’ to do a little. I 
ought to done it afore now ; but ye see I’m 
jist beginnin’ to know my duty.” 

It was easy to see that the old man’s thoughts 
tended* ever to one engrossing subject ; but at 
length Miss Armstrong succeeded in getting 
him to talk of his farm, advising him what to 
do, and telling him how to make the best of 
his resources. She praised him for what he 








Veezy Butterworth and Dorcas. — Page 257. 







GEORGE ESTY AS A TEACHER. 257 

had already done, and offered him the best of 
seed for sowing and planting. 

Profuse in his t&anks for visit, advice, and 
gifts, he stood by her sleigh when she was 
ready to start, looking at her wistfully, until 
she asked, “ What is it you’ve got to say to 
me ? ” 

“ I wan’t ye to be a Christian,” was his 
quick response. “ Don’t lay it up agin’ me ; 
but I pray for ye, and I do want ye to pray 
for yerself. Don’t ye never think* on’t, 
Dorcas ? ” 

For her life she could not have answered. 
She was gone before the old man recovered 
from the effort he had made, and he returned 
to the house sadly troubled. Not more troubled 
was he, however, than the woman who drove 
through the snow at such speed that all who 
saw her wondered. It did seem to her that 
she was haunted by the ghost of religion. 
But for her keen sense of justice, she would 
have blamed her cousin for establishing prayer 
meetings in the neighborhood. She had one 
hope of relief. With the spring these meet- 
17 


258 


FATHER MERRILL. 


ings would be discontinued, and people would 
settle back into their old places. 

She was less certain of this when, some 
hours later, Henry Wyman asked her if she 
was willing that Maggie and himself should 
attend church the next Sabbath. “ Grandpa 
Merrill says we can ride with him ; and we 
should like to go if you’re willing,” he added. 

“ You can go for all me,” was the ungracious 
reply, which brought tears *tb the boy’s eyes, 
and made him wish that he had not proffered 
his request. But Miss Armstrong, regretting 
her petulance, hastened to make amends, by 
saying, “ I’m perfectly willing you should go, 
and I’ll have your clothes all ready. There is 
no need either of your crowding the neigh- 
bors. You can take the sleigh and the old 
horse and go independent. Maybe Hiram ’ll 
want to go with you. He’ll want to wear his 
new coat somewhere. If they go once they’ll 
want to go again,” she said to herself after 
Henry had left her. “ It’s the way with chil- 
dren. But I can’t answer for other folks’ souls, 
and I won’t hinder their having their own way 
about religion. It wouldn’t be right.” 


GEORGE ESTY AS A TEACHER. 259 

If Mr. Murray could have accepted this 
truth with like equanimity, his own happiness 
and that of his family would have been greatly 
enhanced. That he had made some conces- 
sions was apparent to all in the house ; and it 
was equally apparent that he had not done 
this willingly. He was careful to throw a 
newspaper over the Bible whenever he sat 
down in his wife’s parlor, and he never saw 
his children ready for church on the Sabbath 
without in some way manifesting his disap- 
proval. 

Not so Dorcas Armstrong. She assisted 
the children in their preparations, and told 
them pleasantly she hoped they would enjoy 
the day. They were well dressed ; a little 
bashful in the presence of so many people, but 
grandpa and grandma Merrill helped to give 
them confidence. They enjoyed everything 
they saw and heard, carrying home with their 
library books a host of pleasant memories. 
Brent Murray had spoken to Henry, and Mrs. 
Stearns had noticed him. 

“ He said he was glad to see us, and he 


26 o 


FATHER MERRILL. 


hoped we’d tome every Sunday,” whispered 
the boy to his sister. “ I mean to go every 
Sunday.” 

This determination he repeated at Mr. Mer- 
rill’s in the evening ; but the next Sabbath a 
furious storm kept him at home, and before 
two weeks had elapsed he was prostrated with 
sickness. 



I 



CHAPTER XIV. 

THE EPIDEMIC. 


N epidemic was sweeping through 
the town. In nearly every family 
where there were children, one at 
least was stricken down. For aught any 
knew to the contrary the disease had come on 
the wings of the wind, and despite all precau- 
tions it spread with fearful rapidity. Schools 
were closed, and all neighborhood meetings, 
for whatever purposes, were discontinued. No 
more visiting among old or young. Many 
even absented themselves from the Sabbath 
services. 

“ I don’t wan’t anybody to come into my 
house unless they’re willing,” said Dorcas 
Armstrong to her hired man, who had re- 
ported what he heard in the village. “ I don’t 



262 


FATHER MERRILL. 


blame anybody for being careful, but I’m going 
right along same as ever. I’ll take care of 
my own sick, and help other folks if I can. I 
expect nothing but Maggie ’ll be down next, 
and if she is, ’twill go hard with her.” 

“ So ’twill, and hard with you too,” was the 
reply. “ I don’t see how the work’s going to 
be done. I can keep up my end out doors, 
but you’ll need help in the house.” 

“ Where should I get it ? ” asked Miss Arm- 
strong. “ They say you can’t get a girl to go 
where this fever is. I’ll pull through some 
way/if you’ll stand by and not be frightened 
off.”' 

“ You can bet sure on that,” answered Hi- 
ram. “ And there’s the master coming with 
Miss Merrill ; so we an’t left yet.” 

“Why, cousin Mary, I’m glad and sorry 
both to see you, and Mr. Esty, too,” said the 
tired woman, when these friends came in. “ I 
didn’t know but you’d be afraid to come.” 

“ I’ve seen too much sickness to be afraid 
of doing my duty,” replied Mrs. Merrill, cheer- 
fully. “ I wanted to come, and George wanted 
to come with me.” 


THE EPIDEMIC. 


263 


“Yes, Miss Armstrong,” added the young 
man, “ I shall be very happy to assist you in 
any way that I can.” 

“ I’m much obliged to you, but I don’t think 
I need any great help just now. If Maggie 
comes down, I shall be glad to have somebody 
lend a hand.” 

“ Any signs of that, cousin Dorcas ? ” 

“Yes, I han’t told her, but she’ll be down 
to-morrow or next day, unless the medicine 
she’s taking has a better effect than it did on 
Henry. I’m try in’ to get ready for the worst. 
The doctor thinks Henry’s constitution ’ll 
carry him through, and I’m of his mind. It 
comes hardest on some in this neighborhood 
that don’t know how to keep comfortable 
when they’re well. I pity the poor children.” 

No one had reason to pity the children un- 
der her care, except for suffering which she 
could not prevent. As was expected, Henry 
came bravely through the crisis of his sick- 
ness, and was in a fair way to regain his 
health in due time ; but Maggie’s life seemed 
to hang by a thread. 


264 FATHER MERRILL. 

“ Nothing but good nursing ’ll save her,” 
said Mrs. Merrill, on her return from a visit to 
the sick child. “Dorcas knows that as well 
as I do, and she’ll do all any body can do. 
’Twould almost kill her if one of them chil- 
dren should die. You’re going over some time 
to-day, an’t you, father. Henry says he wants 
to see you.” 

“Yes, I’ll go. I’m glad them children are 
so well provided for. Seems to me sometimes 
that Dorcas don’t lack but one thing. She’ll 
have reason to be thankful if her family’s 
spared when there’s so many deaths. The 
doctor ’s most worn out ; and he says if there’s 
many more cases he don’t know how they’re 
going to be taken care of.” 

Soon after this conversation, grandpa Mer- 
rill went over to see these children, who had 
grown to be very dear to him ; and he had not 
been long in the house, when Henry said to 
aunt Dorcas, “ I do want to hear grandpa 
Merrill pray. Are you willing he should ? ” 

“To be sure I am, child,” was the reply. 
“ Why shouldn’t I be. Ask him to pray with 


THE EPIDEMIC. 265 

you, if you want him to. Perhaps Maggie 
would like to hear him, too.” 

Never since the funeral of Mr. Armstrong 
had there been an audible prayer in this house, 
unless, indeed, some workman or these chil- 
dren had murmured a petition which only God 
had heard. Standing where the clergyman 
then stood, now stood Father Merrill, so that 
he could be distinctly heard by all within the 
house. 

She who had so often said she wished never 
again to hear the voice of prayer, now listened ; 
and, strange as it may seem, this was like a 
new revelation to her. She heard no mean- 
ingless words, no irreverent repetitions of the 
dear or august names by which we designate 
our Lord and our God. 

None of these. When Father Merrill opened 
his lips in prayer, he spoke from a full heart. 
There was no need to fill an awkward gap in 
his thoughts, or simulate an earnestness he 
did not feel. For nearly half a century he 
had held intimate communion with God, and 
his speech gave evidence of the fact. When 


2 66 


FATHER MERRILL. 


he closed, both children reached out their 
hands toward him ; and going from one to 
the other, he heard how glad they were. 

“ You asked God to make me well,” said 
Maggie, feebly. 

“ Yes, I asked him to make you well, if he 
sees it’s for the best,” was the old man’s reply. 
“ Don’t you want to get well ? ” 

“Yes, sir, because I an’t sure I shall go to 
heaven if I die. But I’ve asked God to for- 
give my sins.” 

“ Then no doubt he has forgiven you, my 
child,” and now you just go to sleep. You’ve 
nothing to fear.” 

“You’re getting a good deal tired out,” said 
Mr. Merrill to his cousin, soon after. # 

“ I guess I am some tired,” she replied. 
“ I’m anxious, too, about Maggie. It don’t 
seem as though I could bear to have her die. 
I’ve tried to do my duty by them children,” 
she added. “It’s likely I’ve made a good 
many mistakes ; But I’ve meant right. It 
almost seems as though they belonged to 


me. 


THE EPIDEMIC. 


267 


“ They belong to you and God,” responded 
her visitor. “ There couldn’t any mother done 
more for them than you have since they’ve 
been sick. We all know that ; and you’ve 
kept up yourself wonderful. Hiram’s done 
well, too. You’ve been the making of him, 
Dorcas.” 

“ I don’t know about that. He’s done well, 
and the master’s helped him. I declare, cousin 
Seth, that young man beats me. ’Twas hard 
work for me to believe his story ; but I don’t 
doubt a word of it now. Is he going to stay 
with you ? ” 

“ Yes, unless there’s a better opening for 
him somewhere else. John is going to carry 
on the farm at home ; and George says he’d 
rather work for me than anybody else. I’m 
hoping he’ll go back to the city where he came 
from sometime. ’There’s been a good many 
changes in a year, Dorcas, and I hope we shall 
improve them, Mother’ll come over any time 
you need her. George and me can keep 
house.” 

“ You’re very good. If I need her I’ll send 


263 


FATHER MERRILL. 


over ; ” and, as she said this, the speaker went 
back to her work. 

Weary work it was — watching, hoping, and 
yet not praying. Maggie was so patient, and 
so grateful for every attention, that tears came 
often to the eyes of one who had seldom wept, 
even when her days were darkest. At length 
the child was pronounced to be out of danger, 
and then how happy were the days ! Dorcas 
Armstrong had much for which to be thankful, 
since these children were to her like her very 
own. 

The light had gone out in many a dwelling, 
as many a parent mourned for the loved and 
lost. Some few families had not felt the touch 
of disease. The parsonage had been passed 
by, although Mr. and Mrs. Stearns had visited 
the sick and dying through all the town. 
People began to breathe more freely, congratu- 
lating themselves that the worst was over, 
when it was known that three of the minis- 
ter’s children had been taken down the same 
day. 

“ And no extra help to be had for love nor 


THE EPIDEMIC. 269 

money,” was the remark which usually fol- 
lowed this announcement. 

Mrs. Merrill, having heard this, decided at 
once to go to the parsonage ; and would have 
done so, had not Dorcas Armstrong interfered. 
Maggie Wyman was spending the day with 
grandma Merrill, and Dorcas said, “ If you'll 
keep Maggie here with you, I’ll go over my- 
self to-morrow morning, and stay as long as 
they need me. They’ll be better or worse 
within a few days. I han’t any work that’s 
driving, and I’m well rested ; so if you’ll take 
care of my little girl, I can go as well as not. 
Mr. Stearns and his wife have been very good 
to call while the children were sick, and I shall 
be glad to do them a favor. They an’t much 
used to me at the minister’s ; but what they 
want is somebody that can work, and that an’t 
afraid of the fever.” 

There was not much discussion in regard to 
the matter. Miss Armstrong, of course, car- 
ried her point ; and the next morning Hiram 
drove with her to the parsonage. 

“ I’ve come to help you,” was her first salu- 


270 


FATHER MERRILL. 


tation, as she entered the house, without cere- 
mony. “ I thought, maybe, you’d like some 
help.” 

“ Indeed, we do,” responded the clergyman, 
heartily. “ My wife hasn’t slept for two nights, 
and I don’t know as she has closed her eyes in 
the day time.” 

“You don’t look as though you’d done 
much sleeping yourself,” said the visitor. 

“ I don’t feel as though I had,” was the re- 
ply. “ Our children are very sick, and we 
have found it impossible to obtain help. 
Everybody is worn out with sickness at 
home.” 

“ There’s one that an’t,” said Dorcas, in a 
tone calculated to inspire the listener with 
courage. “ Cousin Mary was coming ; but I 
told her I was the one. If I can see Mrs. 
Stearns, I think I can take her place, so she 
can rest.” 

This woman was one of the last whom the 
inmates of the parsonage would have expected 
to come to their relief, yet was she none the 
less welcome. For once in her life, Mrs. 


THE EPIDEMIC. 


271 


Stearns was nearly exhausted, although she 
did not acknowledge this until rest was possi- 
ble for her. The children received their new 
nurse as a friend, and the experience she had 
gained in the preceding weeks enabled her to 
do the right thing at the right time. The day 
wore on, with no perceptible change in the 
little patients, except that they complained less 
of suffering. 

The physician considered this a favorable 
symptom ; and without giving any positive 
opinion as to the result of the sickness, en- 
couraged the parents to hope for the recovery 
of their darlings. “ Dorcas will do more for 
them than I can,” he said, generously. “ She’s 
a wonderful woman ; and if she isn’t a Chris- 
tian, she ought to be ; though it’s my opinion 
she’s got a good deal more religion now than 
her father ever had.” 

“He was called a Christian man,” remarked 
Mr. Stearns. 

“ I know that,” *was the reply. “ But fifty 
such men would sink the town, and make us 
all United States paupers.* I hope I’m a 


272 


FATHER MERRILL. 


Christian ; but I tell you what’tis, Mr. Stearns, 
I’m afraid we don’t, many of us, show the best 
side of religion. We’ve got to live in this 
world, and do something while we’re here, 
same as other people, and we ought to do it a 
little better. That’s Father Merrill’s doctrine, 
and he’ll prove, before he dies, that godliness 
is profitable unto all things, if he did give up 
his place, when, by a stretch of conscience, he 
might have kept it. There’s a good deal about 
Dorcas like him, if she is an unbeliever, as 
Deacon Wightman calls her. Now, while she’s 
here, you and your wife take some rest. She’ll 
do as well for your children as you can ; and 
when she’s done what she feels able, she’ll tell 
you.” 

Dorcas remained six days, and at the end 
of that time there was reason to believe 
that good nursing and skillful treatment had 
been blessed. “ I can come again, for a 
while,” remarked she, as she was preparing 
to leave. 

“You are very kind,” Mrs. Stearns replied. 
“ I don’t know what we should have done 


THE EPIDEMIC. 


273 


without you ; and I’m sure I don’t know how 
to express my gratitude. You have been like 
a tower of strength to us all, and God will 
reward you for your kindness. I hope you 
will find everything right at home.” 

“ I’ve no doubt of that,” was the response. 
“ I’ve got good neighbors. Cousin Mary 
promised to look after things.” 

"I almost envy you your neighbors,” now 
said the clergyman’s wife. “ It seemed to me 
a calamity to us all when Father Merrill 
moved away, and I am hardly reconciled to 
it yet, although Mr. Murray’s people are very 
kind. You are acquainted with them, Miss 
Armstrong ? ” 

“ I’ve seen Mr. Murray and his son, but I’ve 
never been into - the house since cousin Seth 
lived there. They’ve invited me, but I said I 
wouldn’t go, and it’s likely I shan’t, unless I’m 
needed.” 

“ You thought your cousins ought to remain 
there ? ” 

" I did at first. I couldn’t think of anything 
else. But I know better now. They won’t 
18 


274 


FATHER MERRILL. 


want for anything while I live, and we need 
them in our neighborhood. ’Twas a hard case, 
though, for them to give up their home.” 

“ Do you think they will ever come back ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I hope not, as far as I’m 
concerned. I’d rather pay them something 
for staying where they be. I know Ben God- 
dard talked about buying the place back.” 

“Yes ; and some one told Mr. Stearns that 
no doubt he would be able to do it in a few 
years. The mill is running night and day at 
great profits ; and if Father Merrill had been 
willing to let his friends raise the money and 
take a mortgage, Mr. Goddard could have paid 
it without any trouble. I’ve always been sorry 
the old gentleman didn’t give his consent to 
that.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” answered Dorcas. 
“ I suppose he had reasons for doing as he did, 
and I an’t the only one that’s been helped by 
his coming into the neighborhood. I guess it 
was all for the best.” 

“ Yes, Miss Armstrong. There was a provi- 
dence in it, and we may live to know why it 


THE EPIDEMIC. 


275 


was allowed. Such an example of honesty is 
a mighty power for good.” 

Frank Clifford was at the door with Don 
harnessed to a handsome cutter, and in this 
Dorcas was soon comfortably seated. A light 
fall of snow had improved the roads, so that 
sleighing was quite a pleasure ; and as this 
was remarked, some criticisms were made upon 
the really handsome horse which bore them 
along so rapidly. 

“ When my guardian bought Don, I thought 
him a beauty,” said his owner. 

“ And so he is,” was the reply. “ I’ve no- 
ticed him a good many times. I see he’s 
broken to saddle and harness both.” 

“ Yes, ma’am. I wanted my mother to enjoy 
him with me ; and now I am very glad, as 
cousin Stearns finds him convenient.” 

“No doubt of it. I guess he always de- 
pended upon cousin Seth for a horse, as well 
as a good many other favors. But Mr. Mur- 
ray’s a good neighbor.” 

“Very kind,” was the reply. “They have 
been very kind to me. They invited me to 


2j6 


FATHER MERRILL. 


make . my home with them while the children 
are sick ; but I thought I might be of some 
use to my cousins.” 

When this was said they were quite at the 
end of their drive, and with the injunction to 
be sure and come for her if she was needed, 
Dorcas Armstrong bade her attendant good 
by. As she expected, all had gone well in her 
absence. Henry had gained strength remark- 
ably. He had made a visit to grandpa Mer- 
rill’s, and grandma had been over to see him 
every day. 

“ But I’m real glad to see you, aunt Dorcas,” 
said the boy, heartily. 

“And I’m real glad to see you,” she an- 
swered. “ I’ve thought a good deal about you 
and Maggie. I won’t send for her to-night, 
but tormorrow we’ll get round into the old 
track.” 

Mrs. Merrill had been over in the morning ; 
but this did not prevent a second visit in the 
evening. 

“ George don’t make nothing of harnessing 
the horse and waiting upon an old woman,” 


THE EPIDEMIC. 


2 77 


she remarked, by way of apology for coming 
so often. “ I heard they were better at the 
minister’s ; but I wanted to know the partic- 
ulars.” 

The particulars were told, and then the 
cousins discussed various matters of interest, 
while the young men talked of spring’s work 
and political news. 

“ Be they all well at Mr. Murray’s ? ” asked 
the visitor. 

“ Yes ; all but Mrs. Murray, and she’s better 
than she has been,” was the reply. “Mrs. 
Stearns says she’s a very nice woman, and I 
see enough to know she’s generous. I guess 
pretty much all the victuals I ate at Mr. 
Stearns’s came ready cooked from her kitchen.” 

“I’m glad the minister’s got such good 
neighbors,” said Mrs. Merrill, cheerfully. “I 
was sorry to move away from him and his 
wife, and all them dear little children. I han’t 
been discontented, though, a single day over 
here. Everybody’s been good to us.” 

“ And you’ve been good to everybody,” Dor- 
cas hastened to add. “ If ever Ben Goddard 


278 


FATHER MERRILL. 


makes money enough, and is honest enough to 
buy back your old place, this neighborhood ’ll 
go into mourning for your loss, though I’m 
free to own that you deserve a better house to 
live in than the one you’ve got.” 

“ I’m satisfied, cousin Dorcas. Father and 
me han’t nothing to complain of. Father’ll 
enjoy bringing up the farm, and seeing what 
he can do with it. Betsy’s coming back in 
two weeks, and we calculate to make a good 
mess of sugar. George says he understands 
the business, and father says there an’t no 
reason why we shouldn’t make all we want to 
use.” 

“ There an’t no reason,” was the reply. “ I 
used to talk to Dan Mason about it every year ; 
but he was too lazy to do the work, and so 
they went without sugar while he sat in the 
chimney corner and smoked. He never made 
enough on that farm to pay the taxes and feed 
his family, though I told him he ought to lay 
up money. I guess you han’t run behind- 
hand.” 

“ No, cousin Dorcas ; we han’t. But there, 


THE EPIDEMIC. 


279 


I . might stay here and talk all night, when I 
ought to be at home. Come, George, I guess 
we’ll be going.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” answered George, wrapping 
about him the very shawl which had helped to 
conceal his face from the kind-hearted, but 
inquisitive stage driver. Mother Merrill had 
colored it, so that it could be worn without fear 
of recognition ; and the stage driver had often 
seen his mysterious passenger without sus- 
pecting his identity. 

The young man now corresponded regularly 
with his parents, and in his last letter glad- 
dened their hearts by expressing the hope that 
he had become a Christian. 

Since this hope had dawned upon him, he 
was even more anxious than before to retrieve 
his position. A sanctified ambition moved 
him to desire a broader sphere of action ; and 
at one time he had almost resolved to return 
to the city, and obtain such employment as he 
could. But Father Merrill objected’ to this, as 
also did Mr. Stearns, who was consulted, and 
who frankly expressed his opinion. 


280 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“It will be time enough to talk of that 
next fall,” said the clergyman. “ Another six 
months here won’t hurt you, and by that time 
Providence may open a door for you. Do the 
best you can where you are, my young friend, 
and wait.” 

So George Esty entered into Father Mer- 
rill’s plans with a real enthusiasm, determined 
to do his best, and determined also that wher- 
ever he might be, he would endeavor to 
magnify the religion of Christ. The winter’s 
experience had been of great benefit to him ; 
and even now, while the memory of his suffer- 
ings thrilled him with agony, he thanked God 
that his downward career had been arrested. 

A stranger seeing him with Mrs. Merrill, 
would have supposed them to be nearly re- 
lated. It was no hardship for him to wait 
upon the good woman, who loved him more 
for all his troubles. Dorcas was thinking of 
this as they bade her good night and started 
for home. 

The next morning Maggie was back in her 
favorite rocking-chair by the fire, glad to come, 


THE EPIDEMIC. 


28l 


although, as she assured everybody, she “ had 
just as good a time as could be.” 

A fortnight went by with nothing to mark 
its passage, beyond the routine of every-day 
work, and the gradual swelling of buds on 
tree and shrub. Betsy had returned to Mr. 
Merrill’s, and preparations were made -for an 
active season, which the cold winds somewhat 
delayed. 




CHAPTER XV. 

SICKNESS OF BRENT MURRAY. 

RCAS ARMSTRONG was stand- 
ing in the east door of her house, 
looking, with shaded eyes, at her 
sugar orchard, when the doctor drove up and 
accosted her, by expressing the hope that she 
hadn’t “anything special to do that day.” 

“ And what if I han’t ? ” she answered. 

“ I want you to go over to Mr. Murray’s. 
They need some help. One of the hired girls 
was taken sick day before yesterday, and Brent 
came down last evening. He ought to have 
given up before. Mr. Murray’s gone, and I 
told his wife I’d come over and see if you 
could leave home. What say? That boy 
must have good nursing, or he’ll have a short 
sickness. His mother was up most all night, 

282 



SICKNESS OF BRENT MURRAY. 283 

and Mrs. Stearns is there this morning. 
Come, Dorcas ; it don’t generally take you 
so long to make up your mind to do anybody 
a favor.” 

“ I’ll go,” she said. “ But I can’t go now. 
I must see cousin Mary first, and I must do 
some cooking. I’ll try and get over there by 
noon.” 

“ But I want you to go over with me, and I 
ought to be back there as soon as I can. I’ll 
drive over to Father Merrill’s with you, and 
somebody else can do the cooking. It’s a 
case of pretty near life and death, Dorcas ; 
and I’d rather trust your nursing than my 
doctoring.” 

It needed only this to set aside all thoughts 
of personal convenience on the part of her 
who was thus addressed. She was ready in 
the shortest possible time ; and, during the 
drive, learned whatever was necessary of the 
peculiar symptoms of the patient, who was to 
be under her care. 

Brent Murray was delirious ; but no sooner 
did Miss Armstrong enter his room, than he 


284 


FATHER MERRILL. 


recognized her as the woman who had scolded 
him when he deserved it, and whom he must 
obey. He submitted to whatever she pro- 
posed, and although her touch did not bring 
healing, it quieted his ravings. He continued 
to talk, however, sometimes of his horse, some- 
times of his lessons, sometimes of the Bible, 
and sometimes of Father Merrill’s prayers. 

“ It’s true, isn’t it ? ” he murmured. 

“ Yes, it is true,” replied his nurse. 

“ I knew it was,” he said, with great empha- 
sis. “ Call father, so I can tell him. He says 
it’s false ; but he don’t know. Father Merrill 
knows, and he told me. You know, too, don’t 
you ? ” 

“ Yes, yes. I know all about it, so don’t talk 
any more. I want you to go to sleep, so when 
your father comes you’ll be able to tell him.” 

“Yes, I must tell him. You see, he won’t 
let anybody else, and I must We must all 
love God, and ask him to forgive our sins for 
Christ’s sake. If we don’t, we shall all be 
condemned, and there’ll be no salvation for 
us. That’s the way it is, isn’t it ? Isn’t it ? ” 


SICKNESS OF BRENT MURRAY 285 

repeated Brent Murray, eagerly, waiting for a 
reply. “ My head aches so I can’t think very 
well ; but you know, and I want to be sure 
before father comes.” 

“You are right now,” said Dorcas. 

“ Then we must pray that our sins may be 
forgiven. I’ve tried sometimes, but — ” 

Here the speaker’s mind wandered, and it 
was more than an hour before he resumed the 
subject. Then he wished some one to pray, 
insisting upon this until his . nurse told him 
that she could not pray. 

“ Can’t pray ! ” he repeated, in a tone of 
astonishment. “ Why, you’re the woman that 
owns Black Jim, and you can’t pray ? It’s the 
strangest thing! You must learn. Yes, you 
must, else there’ll be no salvation for you. 
Send for Clifford. He can pray, and some- 
body must pray. Send for Clifford.- He’ll be 
glad to come and pray.” 

Mrs. Murray hesitated to ask Frank Clifford 
thus to expose himself to the dreaded fever ; • 
but there was no alternative. The young man 
came at once, glad to do so, and with pleasure 


286 


FATHER MERRILL. 


acceding to his friend’s request Brent was 
soothed by his prayer. Dorcas Armstrong 
was impressed, and but for the constant atten- 
tion she was obliged to bestow upon her 
patient, her own neglect of religious duties 
would have made accusation against her. 

The physician came late in the evening, and 
went away ominously silent. Mrs. Murray 
and Jennie could not sleep. Frank Clifford 
remained in the house, where he could be 
called at any moment ; and yet Dorcas Arm- 
strong preferred to keep her watch alone. If 
she ever prayed, it was then, as she cried, 
“ God help me.” 

When the morning dawned, Brent was no 
worse, and she grew more hopeful. In the 
afternoon she was persuaded to leave him, 
while she obtained some much needed rest ; 
and, sitting for a while with his mother, the 
latter said, “ Oh, Miss Armstrong, how blessed 
it is that we can carry all our troubles to our 
heavenly Father, and be sure that he hears 
us and loves us ! ” 

What could the woman say ? She, who had 


SICKNESS OF BRENT MURRAY. 287 

never experienced the blessedness of trusting 
an almighty Friend ! How could she answer 
the remark to which she had listened ! She 
did not answer. Making some excuse, she 
left the room abruptly, thinking that she, of 
all others, had need to learn the first great 
truths of religion. 

The second night she watched with Brent 
Murray, his father returned ; yet she did not 
yield her post. Mr. Murray looked at his son, 
noting the ravages which disease had made, 
and then turned away without being recog- 
nized. A little after, Brent unclosed his eyes, 
and murmured, “ Yes, it’s true; and I must 
tell father. Why don’t he come ? ” 

“ He has come,” replied Dorcas. “ Do you 
want to see him ? ” 

“ Yes. I want to tell him* that it’s all true. 
I must tell him.” But before Mr. Murray could 
.return, his son had relapsed into unconscious- 
ness. 

“ If he’s no worse by midnight, there will be 
a chance for him,” said the physician, when he 
•came next morning. “ Dorcas, can you keep 
up till then ? ” 


288 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“Yes,” answered the kind-hearted woman, 
although her strength had already been se- 
verely tested. 

“ Then try and do it. Humor all his whims, 
and keep him as quiet as possible, and pray 
God that he will give us his life.” 

How many counted the hours, that pleasant 
spring day, wishing for the night, and yet fear- 
ing what the night would bring. Mr. Murray, 
who would have given his whole fortune to be 
assured of his boy’s recovery j could only wait 
and hope. 

Once during the afternoon Brent roused 
sufficiently to ask that some one would pray 
with him. “ Clifford will,” he whispered. 

“ Where’s father ? Tell him.” 

Mr. Murray came in with Frank Clifford, 
and bowed his head upon his hands as the 
young man knelt. His boy might not be con- 
scious of the request made, or the prayer . 
offered ; but he did not say this. Bending 
over the couch, he took Brent’s fevered hand, 
and waited for some token of recognition. 

“ It’s all true.” 


SICKNESS OF BRENT MURRAY. 289 

“ What is true, my son ? ” 

“True that we are sinners, and must ask 
God to forgive us for Christ’s sake, or we shall 
come short of salvation. I’ve asked God to 
forgive me.” 

Here the labored words ceased. The speak- 
er’s strength was exhausted, and his nurse 
begged that nothing more might be said to 
him. 

“ He is no worse,” she said, as she followed 
Mr. Murray into the hall. “ It seems to me 
now that the chances are in his favor.” 

Midnight passed, and the patient slept. 
Scarce daring to breathe, father, mother, and 
sister watched by his bedside. It might be 
that these were the last moments of his life. 
Dorcas Armstrong, sitting where she could 
see the face of the sleeper, did not once allow 
her gaze to wander. How long she waited ! 

At length a quivering of the eyelids, and a 
slight motion of the head, showed that the 
death-like slumber was over. It might be ; 
yes, thank God ! it might be that the stimu- 
lant, prepared in anticipation of this very 
19 


290 


FATHER MERRILL. 


moment, would quicken the feeble pulse and 
strengthen the wasted frame. Skillfully ad- 
ministered at proper intervals, its effects re- 
alized the most sanguine expectations ; and 
when morning dawned, it was rumored that 
Brent Murray would live. 

Of all the thanks lavished upon her whose 
unwearying care had, with God’s help, con- 
tributed to this result, I need not write. The 
parents lacked words to utter their gratitude, 
while all that language could express, they 
said. Dorcas returned home, glad and happy, 
yet strangely troubled. 

Was it all true ? Must forgiveness and sal- 
vation come to her through Christ ? She had 
intended to do right ; had improved the time 
and strength given her, and had helped those 
who needed help. But notwithstanding this 
intention and these good deeds, she had made 
some mistakes in her life. She was not so 
vain as to think herself perfect. All are sin- 
ners. She was no exception. She started 
from her sleep as the accusations of conscience 
sounded in her ears, and half wished that she 


SICKNESS OF BRENT MURRAY. 29 1 

might nevermore hear of God or accounta- 
bility. Brent Murray must have been delirious 
when he talked of such things. 

Thus thought his father, who watched him, 
day after day, so pale, so still, and so silent. 
A wistful look would sometimes steal over his 
face, but no, word betrayed an ungratified 
wish ; only as the door* of his room opened, 
from time to time, he seemed to be expecting 
one who never came. 

At length he said to his father, “ I want to 
see Frank Clifford. I thought he would come 
to see me.” 

“ He has been here every day, my son,” was 
the reply. 

“ Then let him come to see me. I want 
him. I want him to pray with me. Father, 
the Bible is true, and religion is true. You 
have made a mistake ; but it’s not too late. 
Old Elspetfi told Harry about it, and there’s 
time for the rest of us.” 

The boy was in his right mind now. His 
father could not doubt that, although he was 
very weak, and the effort he had made wearied 


292 


FATHER MERRILL. 


him painfully. “ You’ll tell Clifford, won’t 
you ? ” 

“ Yes/’ answered Mr. Murray. “ But I wish 
you wouldn’t trouble yourself about anything 
until you are stronger. Things will seem very 
different to you then.” 

This man was distressed at the thought that 
his son might become what he was pleased to 
call “a religious fanatic.” He wished Brent 
to have more liberal views, and yet possess the 
nobility and purity of character which dis- 
tinguishes the most intelligent and consistent 
Christians. The present, however, was no 
time for controversy ; and within an hour 
Frank Clifford entered his friend’s room. 

“ I’m so glad ! ” said Brent. “ I’ve wanted 
you. Can’t you stay a while ? ” 

“ As long as you wish,” was the cordial re- 
ply. “ I’m at your service for the entire day ; 
and I fancy I’m a tolerable nurse.” 

Mr. Murray went out, leaving them together ; 
and when he returned, two hours later, his son 
was sleeping. He did not ask what had oc- 
curred ; but when the sleeper awoke, he knew 


SICKNESS OF BRENT MURRAY. 293 

some new happiness had gladdened one young 
heart. 

“You’re willing Clifford should stay with 
me every day, for an hour or two, an’t you, 
father ? ” said the son. 

“ Yes, if you won’t talk too much,” was the 
response. “ You know the doctor said you 
ought not to have company.” 

“ But Clifford isn’t company. He does me 
good.” 

Mrs. Murray knew how this good was done, 
and rejoiced in the belief that her boy was in 
sympathy with her, although she was forbidden 
to speak of anything pertaining to religion in 
his presence. 

“ When I get well we’ll read the Bible to- 
gether, and try to be Christians ; and then, 
perhaps, father and Jennie will see how good 
it is.” This was whispered, softly, to the 
mother, and thus was told the joyful news. 

Brent Murray did not forget all this when 
returning strength enabled him to seek his own 
pleasure. His first visit was made to the par- 
sonage, where, in a long conversation with Mr. 


294 


FATHER MERRILL. 


Stearns, he testified of what God had done for 
him. There, too, he learned that on the night 
when he passed the crisis of his disease, espe- 
cial prayer had been made that his life might 
be spared, and henceforth devoted to the ser- 
vice of God. 

“That was the night I heard Father Merrill 
praying for me,” remarked the young man. 
“ I remember that I used to think I should get 
well if he prayed for me. I heard him pray 
that my life might be spared, if it Could be 
with a blessing.” 

“ Those are the words he uses when pray- 
ing for any one who is very sick,” said Mr. 
Stearns, with some surprise. “ I saw him that 
day, and he told me he was moved to pray 
earnestly for your life.” . 



CHAPTER XVI. 

CHANGES AMONG THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 

CY fetters broken, the waters rippled, 
and danced, and sparkled in the 
glad sunshine. The valleys and the 
hills were covered with verdure. Flowers 
bloomed in sequestered nooks, where only 
fairy feet had trodden, and tiny bells drooped 
from fragile stems, which swayed with every 
passing breeze. 

This spring was like all others, — a resurrec- 
tion from the dead, — fit emblem of that glori- 
ous morning, when the corruptible shall put 
on incorruption, and souls shall be clad in the 
garments of immortality. 

“ God has made all things beautiful in their 
turn,” said Father Merrill, as he stood on the 
brow of a hill, gazing down upon the picture 

295 



296 FATHER MERRILL. 

spread at his feet. “ It seems to me I never 
realized that so much as I have this spring.” 

“ I am sure that / never did/’ replied George 
Esty. “ The grass is greener, and the skies 
fairer to me, than ever before.” 

“ And God is over all, blessed forever,” added 
the old man, reverently. “ Rejoice in the Lord 
always, and give thanks for all his mercies, 
new every morning, and fresh every evening. 
Surely my cup runneth over. My last year’s 
experience has been the best of my life. And 
yours, George, has not been all dark.” 

“ No, sir,” was answered ; and yet a little 
sadly, as the speaker contrasted his present 
position with that he had occupied a twelve- 
month before. 

“ There is a silver lining to the cloud,” Mr. 
Merrill made response. “ Look just beyond 
that high peak, and see the light. From the 
hills cometh our salvation ; and like as a father 
pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them 
that fear him. It is a good thing to give 
thanks and rejoice/’ 

“ Yes, sir, it is,” said his companion, catch- 


CHANGES AMONG THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 297 

ing something of his glad spirit “ I am thank- 
ful, and I will rejoice.” 

“ That’s right, my boy. I want you to be a 
happy Christian, singing as you go, and thus 
honoring Him who has bought you with a 
price. We must be diligent in business, serv- 
ing the Lord.” 

Well might Father Merrill say, " My cup 
runneth over.” During the past year souls 
had been given him, as seals of God’s appro- 
bation. In basket and in store, also, he had 
been blessed. Mr. Goddard had paid the in- 
terest on every dollar due to him, which was, 
in itself, no inconsiderable sum ; and already 
there were many who said the old man had 
been wiser than his counselors. 

To Dell Goddard’s eyes the new home was 
nearly as pleasant as the old ; and even her 
father wondered how a place, which had been 
so long neglected, could in so short a time be 
made to wear such a different aspect. 

“ It has been done by diligent work,” was 
the reply to a question asked in regard to this. 
“ Steady work will accomplish almost anything 


298 FATHER MERRILL. 

that it is right to do. I suppose you have 
found that out.” 

“ Yes, sir, I have, thanks to you. I ex- 
pected to do well last year ; but I am aston- 
ished at all my success. It would have been 
presumption for me to expect so much. The 
rent of the mill is paid ; the interest on my 
whole debt is paid ; and if you had staid on 
your old place, I could have made a handsome 
payment on the principal.” 

“ Give God the glory, my friend. If he had 
withheld his blessing you would have worked 
in vain. Perhaps you think my doctrines 
don’t agree ; but I’ve tried them both, and 
they’re both according to the Bible and com- 
mon sense.” 

Mr. Goddard would not express his opinion, 
lest .it might provoke a discussion of unwel- 
come subjects, and, having business else- 
where, he excused himself, leaving Dell to 
spend the day with grandpa and grandma 
Merrill. 

Not long after another little girl came to 
grandpa Merrill’s, and Dell Goddard made the 


CHANGES AMONG THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 299 

acquaintance of Maggie Wyman. Then, as 
children will, they talked of their personal ex- 
periences and of their treasures. Maggie had 
more books, while Dell had more companions 
of her own age. 

“ I’ve got a new Bible,” at length said Mag- 
gie. “ Aunt Dorcas bought one for me and 
one for Henry, and next Sunday we’re going 
to meeting.” 

“ Don’t you always go ? ” asked her com- 
panion. 

“ No,” was the reply. “ We never went only 
once. But I guess we shall go always now. 
Aunt Dorcas says we may, and we want to. 
Henry and I want to be like grandpa and 
grandma Merrill when we grow up. They 
read the Bible and pray. Do you ? ” 

“ I try,” answered Dell, frankly, notwith- 
standing she was somewhat embarrassed by 
the question. “ Ben and I read the Bible to- 
gether.” 

“ That’s the way Henry and I do,” re- 
sponded Maggie, delighted with this coinci- 
dence. “ And Sunday nights we recite verses 


300 


FATHER MERRILL. 


to grandpa Merrill. I like Sunday best of any 
day.” 

Dell also had a preference for this day ; and 
she was sure Ben liked it, because he seemed 
so happy. “He was always just as good as he 
could be, but now he’s ever so much better,” 
said his sister, emphatically. “ Father says 
everything goes right since Ben took hold of 
the plow.” 

Not many weeks after this Ben told Mr. 
Merrill that everything had gone right since 
he began to acknowledge his dependence upon 
God. 

“Well, my boy, I knew you’d be blessed in 
doing your duty,” was the reply. “ You don’t 
find it very hard work to thank God now.” 

“ Oh, no sir ! Why, I thank him without 
thinking.” 

“ That’s the way,” said the old man. “ That’s 
the way to do. Your heart just runs over 
with gratitude, don’t it?” 

“Yes, sir; and sometimes I whistle, and 
sometimes I sing, and sometimes I kneel down 
and- try to say in words what I feel ; but it’s 


CHANGES AMONG THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 3OI 

all the same to me. I’m so thankful, and so 
happy, I must do something.” 

“ And, my boy, it’s all the same thing to 
God, if I read my Bible right. You love God, 
Ben ? ” 

“Yes, sir, I know I do, just as well as I 
know that I love you.” 

“ Then you’re a Christian.” 

“ I don’t know that certain, though I think 
a good deal about it. I haven’t always done 
right ; but it seems to me the wickedest thing 
I’ve ever done was not to think of God, and 
love him. I forgot him.” 

“You’ve asked his forgiveness for that, my 
boy ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, sir, many and many a time ! 
And I do believe he has forgiven me. But, 
Father Merrill, I never saw my sins before me 
like a mountain, and I never was in such ago- 
ny, as some people say we must be, before we 
can truly repent. I was just sorry for every 
wrong thing I had ever done, -and I am sorry 
now. If I had murdered anybody, or stolen, 
or been a liar, or a swearer, it seems to me I 


302 


FATHER MERRILL. 


should have more to repent of, and I should 
feel a greater burden of guilt.” 

“ Yes, you would. It stands to reason and 
revelation both, that you would. And if you’d 
refused to do your duty, when you knew it, as 
a good many older people have year after year, 
you’d had more to repent of. You can’t re- 
pent of sins you’ve never committed.” 

“ I don’t see how I can,” said Ben. “ But 
some folks say we ought to feel that we are 
just as guilty in God’s sight as though we had 
broken every one of the commandments. 
Now, I don’t feel so. Sometimes I’ve prayed 
that I might feel so, if I ought to” added the 
young man, emphasizing the qualifying clause. 
“But lately I’ve just been happy and thank- 
ful, without troubling myself much about it. 
You see, I’m a happy, good-natured fellow, 
anyway,” continued the speaker, with a smile. 
“ I never was flaring up and. getting mad like 
some boys. I always looked on the bright 
side, if there was one, and tried to make one 
if there wasn’t any ; and I don’t see why I 
shouldn’t now.” 


CHANGES AMONG THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 303 

“ You should, my boy. Being a Christian an’t 
wearing sackcloth, and sitting in the ashes, 
and lamenting over our sins all the time. 
We ought to have true, godly sorrow for our 
sins ; such kind of sorrow as makes us hum- 
ble before God, and makes us try to do better 
in time to come. Another thing, Ben, being 
converted don’t make us all alike. I don’t 
suppose any two people ever had exactly the 
same experience. I’ve seen some in such ag- 
ony under conviction of sin that it seemed as 
though they couldn’t live, and I’ve seen others 
come into the kingdom joyfully, as I believe 
you have. So, my boy, you can whistle, and 
sing, and work, and pray, doing all to the glory 
of God, and magnifying his great and holy 
name by a well-ordered life. I’m sure you’ll 
try to do your duty, and you won’t be left 
long in doubt as to what that is, if you hon- 
estly seek to know. You can have great in- 
fluence over your brothers and sisters.” 

“ Yes, sir, I know I can,” was the reply. ‘‘I 
think Dell loves God now, and she is very 
conscientious. She has worked steadily, but 


304 


FATHER MERRILL. 


now we can afford to send her to school. She 
won’t go into that old mill again.” 

“ And what of your going to school, Ben ? ” 

“ Oh ! I shall go when the right time comes. 
When our debts are paid, and the old mill is 
bought back, I can think of myself. I’ve 
learned something last year if I have worked 
every day. I shall work with better courage 
now I’ve had this talk with you.” 

Brave, happy Ben Goddard ! Why should 
he go mourning all his days because some 
trembling ones faint and falter where he sees 
no stumbling-blocks ! With a lighter heart, 
and more joyous thanksgivings, he returned 
to his home and his duty. 

Father Merrill was quite aware that some 
of his brothers and sisters in the church would 
have given different counsel, and while en- 
couraging the young man to hope for God’s 
forgiving grace, would have cautioned him 
against presumptuous confidence. They would 
have insisted upon a constant distrust of him- 
self, and a constant sense of his guilt. 

As if Christ had not made ample atonement 


CHANGES AMONG THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 305 

for the sins of all who lay their sins at his 
feet ! As if he had not opened a fountain in 
which all who will may wash and be clean ! 
Father Merrill’s judgment was not to be 
questioned ; yet some feared that he looked 
too much on the bright side. It should be 
said, however, that not one of these so honored 
their profession as the old man who rejoiced 
in the abounding .riches there are in Christ 
Jesus. It was his only hope for a sinful world. 
“ There is no salvation except through Christ,” 
he had said again and again while talking with 
those who claimed that they needed no aton- 
ing sacrifice. 

When Brent Murray rode over to see him, 
and told him of the resolution made long be- 
fore, and strengthened by the discipline of 
sickness, he encouraged his visitor to persevere 
in the search for true wisdom. He did not 
use the same words, or express the same 
thoughts as those which had helped Ben God- 
dard. He recognized the fact that these two 
young men were differently constituted, and 
differently situated. 


20 


30 6 FATHER MERRILL. 

Brent would need to stand firm against open 
opposition. He must be rooted and grounded 
in an intelligent faith. He should be able, 
first, to prove that the Bible was true, and 
also that the doctrines he professed to believe 
were plainly taught in the inspired word. He 
must meet subtle reasonings and specious fal- 
lacies with strong, convincing arguments. If 
he would do good work for the Master, he 
must be well equipped for the service. 

“ Study for yourself,” said Mr. Merrill. “ I 
never had any such doubts as you’ve been 
brought up to have, and I an’t book learnt. 
But you ought to be ; and though I don’t 
want to advise you against your father, it’s 
right you should know what you ought to be- 
lieve. But, my boy, you must study prayer- 
fully. I’ve thought sometimes that God gives 
more wisdom in answer to prayer than is 
found in the books. I don’t condemn books, 
though. I wish I’d known more of them ; 
but when I was a boy it wan’t expected. 
You’re going to live in different times, and 
what would do for me won’t do for you. I 


CHANGES AMONG THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 307 

prayed for your life with a blessing, and I have 
faith that the blessing will be given. You 
stood where you could look into the valley of 
the shadow of death.” 

“ Yes, sir, and I wished to come back ; I was 
not ready to go through. I heard you pray 
for me, and I thought God would grant your 
prayer. I want to do my duty, and I hope you 
will pray for me now.” 

“ Yes, my boy, I will, and you must pray for 
yourself,” was the reply. 

“ Yes, sir, I do that,” he answered. 

His high sense of honor prevented his 
speaking freely of his father’s peculiar views, 
and consequently he could not talk of the ob- 
stacles in the way, as he otherwise would have 
done. Frank Clifford had his entire confi- 
dence in spiritual things, but even with this 
friend he could not discuss his relations with 
his father. He drove slowly home, taking 
counsel of himself and of God in regard to the 
future. 

Mr. Murray was sitting upon the piazza 
when his son reached home, and, without 


308 


FATHER MERRILL. 


waiting for a change of purpose, the latter ad- 
dressed his father respectfully, and asked for 
permission to act in all religious matters as his 
conscience dictated. 

“ I thought you had acted as you please,” 
was the reply. “ My wishes have not seemed 
to influence you.” There was something of 
the old hard tone in this ; but presently better 
thoughts prevailed, and the speaker added, “ I 
have no wish to play the tyrant in my family. 
Act for yourself, but don’t trouble me with 
your superstitions.” 

This was more than Brent had expected ; 
and, careful not to annoy his father, he com- 
menced a course of reading recommended by 
Mr. Stearns, in which he soon became deeply 
interested, and so far from the new order of 
things producing an estrangement between 
the clergyman and his wealthy neighbor, they 
were more friendly than before. There was a 
growing intimacy between the families. Mrs. 
Stearns and Mrs. Murray, whose health was 
much improved, exchanged frequent calls, and 
although the latter did not attend church, her 


CHANGES AMONG THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 309 

children reported the sermons, to which they 

listened with the closest attention. 

% 

Meanwhile, Brent Murray had changed. He 
was not the same that he had been before his 
sickness, and, as everybody said, the change in 
him was a great improvement. The servants 
in the house found him more thoughtful, and 
the workmen oftener received from him a 
pleasant word. With the young people he was a 
greater favorite, while among the old he made 
many new friends. 

Mr. Butterworth was remembered and vis- 
ited, in company with Frank Clifford, to whom 
the humble Christian expressed his “ views on 
religion ; ” thankful for the encouraging words 
which were spoken in return, and quite lost in 
admiration of the young men who had taken 
the trouble to call upon “ such a poor old cree- 
tur’.” Industriously working to bring up his 
land, he strove with renewed energy whenever 
this was observed and mentioned, so that he 
was doubly benefited by every visit. 

Dorcas Armstrong had come to expect fre- 
quent calls from these friends, and Black Jim 


3io 


FATHER MERRILL. 


was never so much admired as when they dis- 
cussed his fine points. But in none of their 
calls had Brent found opportunity to ask their 
hostess what she thought of religion. 

At length, when it was nearly midsummer, 
he rode over alone, and some allusion having 
been made to their first meeting, he said, 
“ You were the first person who ever made me 
think seriously of my faults. I don’t believe 
I’ve ever been quite the same since then. You 
told me the truth in plain words.” 

“ And no doubt you thought I was very im- 
pudent.” 

“ I don’t remember thinking that, but I do 
remember feeling very much ashamed of my- 
self. You did your duty.” 

“ Well, yes,” she answered, laughing. ■“ I’m 
pretty likely to do my duty, as far as talking’s 
concerned, when I see a dumb beast abused. 
I’m glad you don’t bear me any ill will for it.” 

“ There is no reason why I should bear you 
ill will. You did me a great kindness then as 
well as since, and, Miss Armstrong, there’s 
something I’ve been wishing to say to you for 
a long time. May I say it now ? ” 


CHANGES AMONG THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 3 1 I 

“ Certain,” was the laconic response. 

“ I want you to be a Christian.” That was 
very little to say, very little compared with 
what Brent had purposed, yet it included all. 
“You won’t bear me ill will for that,” he 
added, after waiting long for a reply. 

“No, I won’t, Brent Murray. If ’twas in 
your mind to say it, you had a right to. But 
it an’t likely we think alike about such things. 
If you’re a Christian, I’m glad of it, really glad, 
and I hope you’ll be a consistent one, like 
cousin Seth. If every professor had been like 
him, I might have been different. But it’s 
too late now for me to change.” 

“ Why is it too late ? ” asked her companion, 
quickly. 

“ Because I’ve made up my mind,” she an- 
swered. 

“ Then you’ve thought it all over, and de- 
cided that it’s best for you to have nothing to 
do with religion.” 

“ Yes, I have — or — at least — I’ve de- 
cided.” 

These words were spoken with much hesi- 


312 


FATHER MERRILL. 


tation. She could not say, as she had before 
said, “ I don’t want religion.” She dared not 
say this ; and, moreover, she was not sure that 
it was true. She was not satisfied with her- 
self, not certain that she was living as she 
should live, and she was too honest to profess 
an indifference she did not feel. 

“ I’m only just beginning a Christian life, 
but I know you’ll need religion when you 
come to die. I’m going to pray for you. 
Good by.” 

There was a striking contrast between this 
young man and the old man, who had spoken 
to her similar words, but their hearts were 
filled with the same Christian love, and their 
prayers ascended to the same throne of grace. 
She looked after Brent Murray as he rode 
away. She had watched Veezy Butterworth, 
as, with shambling steps, he turned from her 
door, and now as then her eyes were dim with 
tears. 

She could never forget their solicitude ; but, 
perhaps, of all the influences brought to bear 
upon her, none was so potent as Mr. Stearns’s 


CHANGES AMONG THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 3 1 3 

careful avoidance of any mention of religion in 
her presence. He, with his wife, visited her, 
counting her among their best friends, and 
often expressing their gratitude for her kind- 
ness, yet never a word of heaven or heavenly 
things. She could not misinterpret their si- 
lence if she would. 

All around her a mighty change had been 
wrought. Every Sabbath morning she was 
left alone. Many passed her house on the 
way to church, some walking, and some in old 
wagons, which creaked and groaned beneath 
their burden, while every face was happy and 
expectant. 

Old Mr. Butterworth always walked, start- 
ing early and stopping often to rest, sure to 
receive from Dorcas a nice lunch, to help him 
on his way. 

“Thank ye,” he would say. “Things is 
different from what they used to be. You’re 
a good woman, Dorcas.” And then the wist- 
ful look, more eloquent than any of his poor 
words. 

The children talked of the communion Sab- 


314 


FATHER MERRILL. 


bath, when “ever so many were going to join 
the church.” Without understanding all which 
this implied, they knew that the people pro- 
fessed to love God, and promised to serve 
liim. 

“ There are two boys not so old as I am,” 
said Henry. 

“ Do you wish you was going to join the 
church ? ” asked Maggie. 

“ I don’t know,” was the reply. “ Perhaps 
I’m not good enough, but I mean to be good, 
and I know I love God.” 

“ Perhaps there’s something else they have 
to do,” suggested the sister. “ Anyway, you’d 
have to ask aunt Dorcas, and I don’t believe 
she’d be willing you should join the church.” 

Dorcas Armstrong heard this, and went di- 
rectly to Mr. Merrill’s, there to tell cousin 
Seth that she wanted him to advise Henry in 
religious matters, the same as if the boy was 
his own son. “ I won’t have any responsibility 
about it,” she said, after repeating what she 
had heard. “ I don’t know anything about it, 
and if you’ve any interest in that boy’s soul, 


CHANGES AMONG THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 3 1 5 

I want you to look after him. I can’t do it. 
If he wants to join the church, it’s none of my 
business.” 

“ There’s no hurry about that,” replied Mr. 
Merrill, quietly. “ There are twenty to come 
forward next Sabbath.” 

“ Is old Mr. Butterworth one ? ” 

“ Yes; and we’re going to try and have his 
wife get out. Mother’s been trying to hunt up 
a bonnet for her to wear.” 

“ I’ll find a bonnet and shawl for her,” . Dor- 
cas responded, heartily. “ I’ve got a black 
shawl that’s been laying by this dozen years. 
She can have it and welcome. And I’ve got 
a bonnet I can fix up. Poor old woman ! 
She ought to go- decent. Is George Esty one 
of the twenty ? ” 

“Yes ; and if there ever was a living Chris- 
tian he’s one. Mother and me feels as though 
he belonged to us. We shan’t know how to 
get along without him.” 

“ Any danger of his going, right away ? ” 

“ Not as I know of. But I’m always expect- 
ing an opening for him. Perhaps you’d better 


316 


FATHER MERRILL. 


talk to mother about them things for Miss 
Butterworth before you go home.” 

As a result of this talk, Mrs. Butterworth 
was presented with a bonnet and shawl, which 
no old lady in town would have been ashamed 
to wear, and which she thought “ most too 
good for such as her.” Everything was ar- 
ranged. She was to ride with Mrs. Merrill, 
while her husband would walk, as usual. 

People who “ never went to meeting,” went 
that day, which was a high day in the history 
of our village church. There was a fine-look- 
ing stranger in “ the minister’s pew ; ” but 
few cared to observe him. All eyes were fixed 
upon “ the candidates for admission to the 
church.” Reverently they came forward, old 
and young together ; some well endowed with 
this world’s goods, and some struggling with 
poverty. 

“ A blessed season,” as Father Merrill said 
to the stranger, who grasped him cordially by 
the hand. 

“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “And it must 
be doubly blessed to you, whom God has per- 


CHANGES AMONG THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 3 1 / 


mitted to be the means of bringing these souls 
to him.” 

“ Not unto us, not unto us ; but unto God 
be the glory,” responded the old man ; adding, 
soon after, “ We shall see you to-morrow.” 








CHAPTER XVII. 

GEORGE ESTy’s RETURN TO THE CITY. 

HE next morning George Esty went 
to his work as usual, although he 
had passed a sleepless night. Hav- 
ing seen and recognized Mr. Clapp, who had 
written so kindly of him to Mr. Stearns, he 
was excited by the mere proximity of one who 
knew so much of his previous life. Mr. Mer- 
rill had been to the parsonage Saturday even- 
ing, and must have seen the visitor, although 
his name had not been mentioned. A little 
past noon the clergyman drove over with his 
cousin ; and not long after George was called 
to the house, where Mr. Clapp met him cor- 
dially. 

As had been previously arranged, they were 
left alone, and business at once introduced. 

318 



GEORGE ESTY’S RETURN TO THE CITY. 319 

The merchant wanted a clerk in his store 
whom he could trust, under all circumstances. 
Disposed to offer the situation to his present 
companion, he wished to know the whole 
truth in regard to the young man’s leaving 
Mr. Wallace. “You understand that this 
would be necessary,” he remarked. 

“Yes, sir, I do,” was the reply. “And do 
you wish to know my story after I left ? ” 

“ I should be glad to know it,” answered the 
merchant. “ We shall be on more confidential 
terms then ; and you may be sure I shall not 
use my knowledge to your disadvantage.” 

George Esty waited for a moment, the blush 
of shame mantling his cheeks. . It was more 
difficult to talk to this man of his sin and his 
sufferings than it had been to unburden his 
heart to Father Merrill. But he gained cour- 
age for the effort, and as he proceeded, the con- 
sciousness of an unspoken sympathy greatly 
aided him. It was all told ; and yet the 
listener could not realize how cold, and hun- 
ger, and remorse had tortured him who made 
such confession. He could not realize this ; 


320 


FATHER MERRILL. 


but he could and did appreciate the firm pur- 
pose and manly uprightness which had striven, 
so earnestly, to redeem the past. 

“You have shown the right spirit, and I 
honor you for it,” said Mr. Clapp, extending 
his hand to his companion. “ There is a place 
for you in my store, if you will accept it. I 
shall trust you, and others will trust you. I 
shouldn’t do as Mr. Wallace did ; but it may 
have been the best thing for you. Any of 
us may do wrong. Even the Christian often 
yields to temptation, and we all need to for- 
give, as we would be forgiven.” 

Some further conversation in regard to the 
service required, and salary to be paid, closed 
the interview. George Esty was to enter upon 
his new duties as soon as convenient for his 
present employer. Father Merrill congratu- 
lated both parties upon this arrangement ; as 
also did his wife, although they were sorry to 
lose the young man from their family. 

Dorcas Armstrong, who was first to be told' 
the news, expressed herself in a characteristic 
manner. “ It beats me ! ” she said. “ If Dan 


GEORGE ESTY’S RETURN TO THE CITY. 32 1 

Mason had staid here George would likely 
froze to death in the old barn, or if he’d lived, 
he’d wandered on, nobody knows where. Now, 
who knows but what Ben Goddard failed, and 
you moved over here just to save his life! 
It’s likely to me there’s something more to 
come of it, though I don’t know what. I’m 
sorry to have the young man go off. He 
could keep any school in town this winter, at 
his own price. I don’t know what I’m going 
to do. There’s Frank Clifford and Brent Mur- 
ray going off to school in two or three weeks, 
and I shall miss them more than I want to. I 
guess we shall all be pretty lonesome.” 

“ Yes, Dorcas, it’s likely we shall. But we’ll 
try and get along. You’ve got the children, 
and we’ve got all of you. You’re a real com- 
fort to us, and I an’t going to be sorry that 
George can go where he wants to. I’m so 
glad he’s a Christian, I can’t be sorry for any- 
thing about him.” 

“ I’m glad he’s a Christian, too.” 

Dorcas was gone ; and then it occurred to 


21 


322 


FATHER MERRILL. 


Mrs. Merrill that this last remark was not 
what might have been expected from her. 

“ She is different,” murmured the old lady. 
“ I do believe she’s glad George is a Christian, 
and she’s glad for everybody that’s converted.” 

It was soon known that Mr. Merrill’s hired 
man was going to leave ; and within a few 
days another was found, who thought he could 
do as much work as that city chap. But Betsy 
thought differently. “ He won’t do half as 
well,” she said, with great emphasis. “ George 
is always so polite, it takes off the hardest 
part of the work ; and then he always thinks 
of everybody’s comfort. For my part I hope 
I shall see him again some time.” 

She was not alone in hoping this. All his 
acquaintances expressed the same desire, and 
were assured, in return, that if he lived three 
years he should come back to make a visit. 
Even the stage driver was sorry to have him 
“ leave these parts,” and wished him the luck 
to get rich. 

“ If I ever do I’ll remember you,” was George 
Esty’s reply. “ But what do you call rich ? ” 


GEORGE ESTY’S RETURN TO THE CITY. 323 

“ Well, if I was worth, say now, five thou- 
sand dollars, I should think I was about rich 
enough for me. You’ve been in the city be- 
fore?” 

“ Yes, I w r as there about three years ; and 
then it seemed best that I should leave for a 
while. Mr. Merrill wanted some help, and 
I wanted work, so we made a bargain. 
Now it seems best for me to go back to the 
city.” 

This was sufficiently explicit, if not alto- 
gether satisfactory, and the inquisitive driver 
asked no further questions. From him his pas- 
sengers learned where he had taken up “ the 
lame man, that never was seen nor heard of 
afterward ; ” and, as may be imagined, one 
heart beat quicker as they passed the spot. 

There our hero had sat, despairing and 
forlorn ; now he was hopeful, and counting 
many friends. The future opened before him 
brighter even than in the old days, .ere he had 
stooped to sin. Humble before God, he was 
again confident before men. Mr. Clapp stood 
higher in the mercantile world than did his 


324 


FATHER MERRILL. 


former employer. Moreover he was to have 
a larger salary than he had ever received. 
Under ordinary circumstances, his temptations 
to extravagance and dissipation would be in- 
creased ; but now leaning upon an almighty 
Arm, he trusted he should stand firm. 

Not like a stranger was he greeted, as he 
went directly to his old boarding-place. Mrs. 
Hope was glad to see him. She had been 
counting the days since he wrote, asking to 
be reinstated in her family. His room, which 
had been vacated a short time before, was 
ready for him, and she never had a boarder 
she liked so well. 

“But, Mr. Esty, you look so much better 
I should hardly know you,” she said, after he 
was established in the old quarters. “You 
didn’t tell me what you are going to do now 
you’ve come back.” 

“ No, Mrs. Hope, I didn’t ; but I will tell 
you. I am going into Mr. Clapp’s store.” 

“ Into Mr. Clapp’s store ! ” she repeated, in 
a tone of astonishment. “ I didn’t know but 
you’d go back to Mr. Wallace. I’ve heard he 


GEORGE ESTY’s RETURN TO THE CITY. 325 

has had a good deal of trouble to make your 
place good, and I couldn’t help thinking it was 
a just judgment upon him. I never shall get 
over his treating you as he did.” 

“ It was the best thing for me, Mrs. Hope. 
It drove me out of the city to where I found a 
good home and my Saviour.” 

“ Do you mean to say that you are a Chris- 
tian ? ” asked the woman. 

“ I hope I am, and I hope to live like a 
Christian,” answered her companion. 

“ Then come right out before everybody and 
say so,” was Mrs. Hope’s advice, after a mo- 
ment’s thought. “ Take a decided stand, and 
you’ll do well enough. I used to think reli- 
gion was all you lacked ; and if you’ve got 
that, you won’t have any more trouble. Mr. 
Clapp is one of the best kind of Christians. 
His head and heart were both converted. It 
an’t for me to say that Mr. Wallace an’t a 
Christian, but I will say that I’ve seen him 
when he didn’t act like one. I’m glad you’ve 
come back, and I hope you’ll show him that he 
made a mistake in sending you away.” 


326 


FATHER MERRILL. 


Mr. Wallace manifested some surprise when 
he met George Esty in the street, and still 
more when he saw him in Mr. Clapp’s store. 
He bowed coldly at the first meeting, more 
cordially at the second, and when the young 
man was sent to him to transact some busi- 
ness, his manner wanted nothing of respect. 
Of course the return of his old clerk revived 
the curiosity which had been felt when Esty 
left, but for once curiosity was baffled. 

The young man’s first calls had been made 
upon his creditors, whose bills he paid to the 
last cent. His former friends were loud in 
their expressions of welcome, congratulating 
him upon his “ first-rate chance,” and inviting 
him to join them in their accustomed places 
of resort. 

“ Old Wallace is a pretty hard customer, 
but Mr. Clapp is a gentleman, every inch of 
him,” remarked one, whose face bore the marks 
of dissipation. * 

“Yes, a Christian gentleman,” replied 
George Esty. “ Mr. Wallace is just.” 

“Too confounded just,” was the response. 


GEORGE ESTY’S RETURN TO THE CITY. 327 

“HI tell you a piece of his justice. He hired 
a boy into his store to do errands, a little fel- 
low, but bright and smart as he could be. 
Wallace didn’t pay him enough to keep soul 
and body together anyway, and one day the 
boy saw some pennies on the table, and took 
two. Now comes the justice. The little fel- 
low’s conscience troubled him so he carried 
back the pennies, and told what he had done. 
What do you think Wallace did ? Just turned 
him off ; and when he begged for another trial, 
ordered him out of the store. That’s justice 
for you with a vengeance ! Webster told me 
of it, and we hunted up the boy and gave him 
a little help. His mother makes shirts for ten 
cents apiece, and he is honest if he did for 
once take two pennies that didn’t belong to 
him. He said he wanted to buy some peaches 
for his mother. By George ! Esty, I don’t 
make any pretensions to being a Christian, 
but I am human, and I want to help that 
little fellow.” 

“Well, Nason, I make some pretensions to 
being a Christian, and I want to help him 
too.” 


328 FATHER MERRILL. 

“You a Christian, Esty? By George! It’s 
something new, isn’t it ? ” 

“Yes, new to you. I certainly was not a 
Christian when I left the city. Now I am 
trying to live according to Bible rules.” 

“ Well, go ahead, old fellow, and I’ll see how 
you hold out, though you used to be tiptop 
company, and we shall be sorry to lose you.” 

“ What’s to hinder my being good company 
now ? ” 

“ I don’t know. *. It’s hard telling ; ” and the 
puzzled look upon the speaker’s face provoked 
a smile from his companion. “To tell the 
truth, I don’t know much about it. I suppose 
you would prefer a prayer meeting to a jolly 
time?” 

“I should like both, provided there was 
nothing wrong in the jolly time,” replied 
George Esty. “ But tell me more of your 
boy. I am interested in him ; ” and there 
might have been added, truthfully, “ I am in- 
terested in you.” 

His companion had changed much since 
they parted ten months before. A noble na- 


GEORGE ESTY’s RETURN TO THE CITY. 329 

ture would go to wreck, unless some one inter- 
posed to prevent the catastrophe. The two 
walked toward the wretched quarter where 
little Will Downs lived with his mother. 

“ Better take Will under your wing,” said 
Nason, after some conversation upon other 
subjects. “ His mother is one of the pious 
kind, and she’ll consider you a safe guide for 
him.” 

“ You ought to be a safe guide for him your- 
self,” was the reply. 

“ But do you think I am ? ” 

“No, I can’t say that I do.” 

“Good for you, Esty. You can tell the 
truth, and that’s more than everybody can do. 
I an’t quite up to the mark, but then I’m about 
as good as the average, and I’m willing to 
take my chance with old Wallace any day. 
By George ! What if one of his boys should 
steal a penny ! Wonder if he’d think it a 
state’s prison offense ! Tell you what, Will 
Downs is a better Christian than he is.” 

Mrs. Downs rose to receive her visitors, and 
asked them to be seated. Her boy had gone 


330 FATHER MERRILL. 

out to get shavings, but would be in directly. 
He didn’t find much work. He was hoping 
for better times. It was. very kind in Mr. 
Nason to remember him. The mother was 
saying something like this, when Will came 
whistling up the stairs, and sprang into the 
room with a shout. 

“Hurrah, mother! I’ve earned ten cents, 
and I’ve got some shavings that is shavings.” 
And that was the boy Mr. Wallaee had dis- 
missed ! 

One of the visitors knew well how to pity 
him ; but it was not so much for him as for 
young Nason that George Esty had made this 
call. They remained only long enough to en- 
courage both mother and son, and then went 
their way. 

Nason was puzzled. He could not see that 
his companion had changed in appearance, as 
he told some of their mutual acquaintances 
when speaking of the fact that Esty professed 
to be a Christian. “ It must be, though, that 
he has changed,” was added, and they were 
not long in discovering wherein this change 


GEORGE ESTY’S RETURN TO THE CITY. 33 1 

consisted. Frank, cordial, and affable, when 
invited to join in questionable amusements 
the young Christian declined in such a way 
that his motives could not be misconstrued. 

In some respects his first month with Mr. 
Clapp was one of trial, and it was a relief to 
him when told that he had given entire satis- 
faction. At the same time he was able to 
speak a kind word for Will Downs, and not 
long after the boy found himself earning so 
much money, that he was positively rich. 
Two whom Mr. Wallace had discarded were 
taken into the confidence of his brother mer- 
chant, a man whose general shrewdness and 
knowledge of character was never questioned. 
If the former thought of this, however, he 
gave no sign ; and if he doubted the justice 
of his mandates, he did not allow it to be 
kno*wn. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 


dorcas Armstrong’s experience. 



Father Merrill had wished to 


be informed how George Esty was 
met by his late employer, and when 


a single paragraph contained all there was to 
be told, the old man was half inclined to doubt ' 
the religion of one so hard-hearted. “ He’ll 
live to want the boy’s help yet,” was his com- 
ment. 

“ I hope he will,” said Dorcas Armstrong, 
to whom this remark was repeated. “ He’s 
worse than I am, and I don’t make any pre- 
tensions to being good.” 

“I an’t sure about that,” answered Mrs. 
Merrill. “Seems to me I’ve heard you say 
you meant to do right” 

“ I guess you have, and I do mean to do 


332 


dorcas Armstrong’s experience. 333 

about right ; but there’s a difference. Pro- 
fessors pretend they’re going to follow the 
example of Christ.” 

“ Yes, and they ought to, just as much as 
you.” 

“ I should think they ought to a good deal 
more,” replied Dorcas, with some astonish- 
ment. “ Don’t you think you’re under more 
obligations to live a good life than 1 be ? ” 

“ I don’t know' as I be, cousin Dorcas. I 
an’t quite clear about that. Perhaps we’d 
better ask father ; ” and as father came in, the 
question was submitted to him. 

After considering the subject, he said, “ Sup- 
posing I had four children that I loved and 
took care of, and all I asked of them was 
that they should obey me. And supposing I 
couldn’t make any mistakes about what was 
best for them. Now don’t you think they 
ought to show some respect for me, and try to 
do as I wanted to have them ? ” 

“To be sure I do,” answered Dorcas, 
quickly. 

“Well, then, supposing two of my children 


334 


FATHER MERRILL. 


should say, 4 Father, we love you, and we’ll try 
to do as you want to have us,’ while the oth- 
ers didn’t mind anything about me, anyway, 
though they were dependent upon me all the 
time. Now do you see any reason why the 
first two would be under any more obligation 
to obey me than the others ? ” 

“No, I can’t say as I do.” This time the 
reply was made with more hesitation. 

“ Well, Dorcas, it seems to me that’s about 
the way with them that profess to be Chris- 
tians, and them that don’t. We’re all God’s 
children, dependent upon him for our very 
lives, and we can’t do anything for ourselves 
without his help. I know there’s more ex- 
pected of professors, but in God’s sight I can’t 
see how they’re under any more obligation to 
do right than other folks. God makes allow- 
ance for sins of ignorance, but where anybody 
knows what duty is, and refuses to do it, their 
condemnation is just.” 

“ But, cousin Seth, supposing they an’t cer- 
tain.” 

“ Then they must pray over it till the way’s 


dorcas Armstrong’s experience. 335 

made clear. We an’t required to walk in 
more light than we can get, but we are re- 
quired to get all the light we can. An’t that 
reasonable, Dorcas ? v 

“ I don’t know,” she answered, slowly. 
“ Yes, I do know,” she added. “ It is reason- 
able. I should say so about anything else, 
and I an’t going to lie about this. But 
there ! It does seem to me lately that I can’t 
have no peace of my life. It’s nothing but the 
Bible, and religion, and going to meeting, all 
the time. Sundays come so thick there an’t 
much between. If my father’d been like you, 
cousin Seth, I should been different ; but 
now, I an’t going to say any more about these 
things, anyway.” 

What Mr. and Mrs. Merrill thought of her 
does not matter, while what she thought of 
herself was of infinite importance. She knew 
her duty, and refused to do it. As she 
walked slowly home she reviewed the events 
of the past year. Even she could see God’s 
hand in all. Only the night before she had 
heard Maggie pray that she might be a 


336 


FATHER MERRILL. 


Christian, and she doubted not that this 
prayer was one of many. 

She thought of cousin Seth’s parable. She 
was an undutiful, disobedient child, and yet 
the Father showered his blessings down upon 
her. Like others, she was dependent upon 
God for life, and breath, and all things. 

Days and weeks went by. She gathered 
in her harvest, and counted her gains. The 
evenings were longer, and the neighbors 
talked of having a prayer meeting. “ I do 
wish they wouldn’t,” she said to herself ; yet 
no one heard her express wish or opinion in 
regard to it. 

At the first meeting, Mr. Butterworth asked 
that everybody would pray for the conversion 
of “ one of the best and smartest women in 
town.” He did not designate this woman by 
name, and, indeed, it was not necessary that 
he should. All knew to whom he referred, 
and all prayed that Dorcas Armstrong might 
be converted. 

At home she felt the influence of these 
prayers. They reached to heaven, and the 


dorcas Armstrong’s experience. 337 

Holy Spirit moved upon her heart until she 
saw herself so sinful and so guilty that she 
was fain to hide herself from the presence of 
the Lord. Pride and prejudice were forgotten ; 
her father was forgotten ; she had to do only 
with Him who ruleth in the skies. Her many 
assertions of independence and indifference 
seemed blazoned in letters of living light, and 
she trembled as she looked. Her boasted 
goodness was - mere selfishness. What merit 
had she to plead as a reason why condemna- 
tion should not be pronounced upon her ? 

Suddenly came to her the thought, “ It is 
too late for me to change.” Too late ! Had 
she not said this herself, and was it not true ? 
Too late! Shut off from hope! Shut out 
from heaven ! In his abounding charity 
Father Merrill might find some excuse for her 
conduct. She could find none, though she 
sought it with tears. 

That night it was impossible for her to 
sleep, and the next day she seemed so ill that 
Maggie told grandma Merrill something must 
be the matter. “ Aunt Dorcas didn’t know I 


338 


FATHER MERRILL. 


was going to tell you,” added the child, “ but I 
wish you’d come over.” 

Mr. Merrill having some business to trans- 
act with his cousin, went to her house, and re- 
marking her unusual depression of manner, 
asked the cause. 

“ Nothing, only I’ve just found out that I’m 
a sinner, and it’s too late for me to be forgiven. 
Now I’ve told you the whole truth, but you 
needn’t say a word to me. I suppose I can 
bear it, as I have everything else in my life.” 
Having said this the speaker began to weep. 

“ Cousin Dorcas, this is the best news I ever 
heard of you,” replied Father Merrill, his own 
eyes dewy, and his voice full of tenderness. 
“ If you feel that you’re a sinner, God is ready 
to forgive you. Don’t tell me it’s too late. 
Christ came into the world to save sinners like 
you and me. Cousin Dorcas, I’ve prayed for 
this hour. I had faith to believe the Lord 
would call after you. Though your sins be as 
scarlet, they shall be washed away in the blood 
of Christ.*’ 

“ No, cousin Seth, I don’t believe it ; I can’t 
believe it. Think what I’ve said and done.” 


dorcas Armstrong’s experience. 339 

“ And are you sorry, Dorcas ? ” 

“ Sorry ! ” she repeated, looking at him 
almost fiercely. “ Don’t you suppose I’m 
sorry ? ” 

“ Yes, Dorcas, I’m sure you be. f knew you 
would be as soon as you came to realize the 
truth. You won’t say any more against re- 
ligion.” 

“ No, and I han’t said anything against it 
for a good while. I’m glad to have everybody 
get religion that can, but it’s too late for me.” 

“ No, cousin Dorcas, it is not too late.” And 
then remembering that she must have heard 
much of the unpardonable sin during her fath- 
er’s life, Mr. Merrill hastened to add, “ God’s 
mercy is limited only by the sinner’s willing- 
ness to accept mercy in the appointed way. 
God is able, and willing, and glad to receive 
all who come to him trusting in the merits of 
Christ. By the deeds of the law shall no flesh 
be justified, but whosoever believeth on Christ 
shall have everlasting life. So, Dorcas, it de- 
pends upon yourself whether your sins are for- 
given or not.” 


340 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ But if I’m one of them elected to be 
lost — ” 

“ Don’t finish that, Dorcas ; I don’t want to 
hear it. What do you or I know about that ? 
We know that Christ died for all, and that’s 
enough.” 

The good man knew whence came the 
thought his companion had but half expressed, 
and pitied her the more for another’s fault. 
She looked at him so earnestly that he said, 
“ What is it ? What do you wish to ask ? ” 

“ I want to know what I shall do,” she 
sobbed. 

“ Pray God to forgive your sins, and give 
you an assurance of forgiveness.” 

“ But I don’t know how to pray. I never 
prayed ; I can t pray.” 

“You can pray, cousin Dorcas. You can 
ask me for a favor if you want one, and you 
can ask God. If you don’t want to pray, that’s 
another thing. But you must pray or you will 
never be forgiven. I have prayed for you, and 
others have prayed for you. Now you must 
pray for yourself. God waits to be gracious. 
Put your trust in him, nothing doubting.” 


dorcas Armstrong's experience. 341 

This was Father Merrill’s parting injunc- 
tion, and Dorcas Armstrong was left to com- 
mune with her own thoughts until afternoon, 
when cousin Mary was warmly welcomed. 
Then the proud woman revealed more of her 
recent experience than she had done in the 
morning. 

“ It all come over me as I was sitting here 
alone last night," she said. “ I saw my sins 
clear as though they’d been written out before 
me, and they’ve been growing darker ever 
since. I can’t live so, cousin Mary. I’ve 
known this good while that I want doing 
right, but I wouldn’t give up." 

“ Are you willing to give up now, Dor- 
cas ? ” 

“ I don’t know," was the hesitating reply. 

“ Are you willing to pray for forgiveness and 
strength to do your duty ? ” 

“ I r#7z7pray," she answered ; and for days 
she assured herself and these friends that 
prayer was, for her, an impossibility. At 
length, tired, worn, and despairing, she threw 
herself upon her knees, and prayed God to 


342 


FATHER MERRILL. 


give her strength and forgiveness. “ Forgive 
me, and help me.” This was the burden of 
her petition, and for the time she was com- 
forted. 

Then came a struggle between pride and 
duty. If she wished to be on the Lord’s side, 
she must manifest this to the world. Here 
she faltered. She utterly refused Mrs. Mer- 
rill’s invitation to attend the prayer meeting ; 
yet all day she was haunted with a dread of 
the evening ; and when left alone her agoni- 
zing convictions of guilt returned. With no 
definite purpose, she went out beneath the 
stars, and, as if moved by an irresistible im- 
pulse, her steps turned to the place of prayer. 
Unobserved she entered the house and gained 
a position where she could hear all which was 
said. Mr. Butterworth repeated his request 
of the previous week, and she knew for whom 
they prayed, as one after another presented 
her interests at the throne of grace, while it 
required a mighty effort of will to keep silence 
under the conflicting emotions which tortured 
her. 


dorcas Armstrong’s experience. 343 

What right had these neighbors thus to 
talk of her, as though she was exposed to 
some imminent danger from which only an 
almighty Arm could save her ? But was she 
not thus exposed, and did not her whole na- 
ture shrink from the danger which threatened 
her ? 

The hymns which were sung had been to 
her as household words in her girlhood. She 
had sung them many a time with those whose 
voices were now hushed in death, and she 
had hummed them at her work until even 
these were discarded as savoring too much of 
religion. 

How she reached home that night she did 
not know, but she was in her own room when 
the children returned. The next day she went 
over to visit Mrs. Merrill, and while concealing 
the fact that she had attended the prayer 
meeting, acknowledged that she was more 
wretched than ever before. “ I’ve tried to 
pray, and it seems to me I’ve done all I can,” 
she said. 

“ Have you done everything you knew to be 
your duty ? ” asked her cousin. 


344 FATHER MERRILL. 

“No, I han’t,” was the honest reply. 

“ Then that’s the trouble, Dorcas. You can’t 
expect God to give you an assurance of for- 
giveness as long as you willfully disobey him.” 

“ Tell me what I ought to do,” cried the. un- 
happy woman. 

“You don’t need to be told,” was the reply. 
“You know what duty you have neglected. 
You an’t ignorant, like some others, so you’ve 
no excuse to make. When you’re ready to 
submit your will to God’s will your trouble 
will be all over. If you deny Christ before 
men, he will deny you before his Father which 
is in heaven. Father and me have done all 
we can for you.” 

When with her cousin, Dorcas Armstrong 
had felt that she was nearer to God ; but as 
she heard this her heart sunk within her. She 
must go home, and there settle the matter for 
herself. She wished to be at peace with God, 
but, like many another, she would dictate the 
terms of this peace. 

In some way she went through the work of 
the week, too proud to acknowledge to her 


dorcas Armstrong’s experience. 345 

family the' cause of her unhappiness, and 
yet unable to conceal it. Sabbath morning 
dawned pleasantly. When all was still, she 
sat down with an open Bible before her, and 
determined that this day should decide her fu- 
ture. “ For God, or against him ! ” Her weal 
or woe through all the countless ages of eter- 
nity depended upon her decision. 

I should not say that light dawned upon 
her, but rather that she turned to the light ; 
and when seated at the table with Hiram and 
the children, she told them she should use her 
whole influence to advance the cause of reli- 
gion, whether she was a Christian or not. 
“ We must have somebody pray for God’s bless- 
ing upon us morning and night.” 

It seemed to those who looked at her as 
she . said this, that her face was transfigured ; 
and when, with clasped hands and bowed head, 
she thanked God for the food now prepared 
for them, her emotion found a response in the 
hearts of her companions. Maggie left her 
seat, and throwing her arms around aunt Dor- 
cas’s neck, wept for very joy ; Henry was 


346 


FATHER MERRILL. 


ready to do the same ; and Hiram, wiping the 
tears from his eyes, said, “ That’s the best job 
you ever done. I’ve been holding back, but 
I’m ready to go on now.” 

It was late when the children went to 
grandpa Merrill’s ; and then such a wonderful 
story as they had to relate ! Aunt Dorcas had 
prayed at the table, and she was going to pray 
with them every night and morning! She 
said she would, and they were all so happy — 
Hiram and all. She could hear them recite 
their verses too, and everything was going to 
be so different. “ I guess she’ll come to the 
prayer meeting,” whispered Maggie. 

And surely, next Tuesday evening she was 
one of those who went to spend an hour in 
conference and prayer! After Father Merrill 
had opened the meeting, and invited all to 
take a part, Dorcas was first to rise and speak 
a few earnest words. She confessed that she 
had been Wrong in the past ; and while she 
did not now claim to be a Christian, she would 
no longer stand in the way of others. Spoken 
like herself, as must needs be, no one doubted 
her sincerity. 


dorcas Armstrong’s experience. 347 

Old Veezy Butterworth leaned forward in 
his chair, and almost held his breath while she 
was speaking. “’Twan’t no use my tryin’ to 
talk after hearin’ you,” he said to her when the 
meeting had closed. “ It done me more good 
than all the preachin’ I ever heard. It ’ll do 
mother a heap o’ good just to hear on’t.” 

The good news spread, and was confirmed 
beyond the possibility of a doubt when Dorcas 
Armstrong took her seat in the family pew the 
next Sabbath morning. People were surprised 
to see her, while she was surprised at what 
she heard. It had been twenty-five years 
since she had heard a sermon from that pulpit. 
She was a young girl then ; a middle-aged 
woman now ; yet her heart was far younger 
than it had been, when, forced by the com- 
mand of her father, she had last entered this 
house. 

People who knew her best said least to her. 
Even the clergyman’s wife gave her only such 
greeting as was given to others, but during 
the week there was an opportunity for a frank 
interchange of feeling. Mr. Stearns and his 


343 


FATHER MERRILL. 


wife visited her, and she was glad to tell them 
of her experience. She was by no means sure 
that she was a Christian. Indeed, she had 
thought of herself and her sins until she was 
glad to forget self and sins together, as she 
confessed that she had done. 

“It ant much consequence about me/’ she 
said, in all sincerity. “ I don’t deserve for- 
giveness anyway ; but I mean to help others 
along. It’s a wonder to me how I’ve changed. 
Why, Mr. Stearns, I just hated the sight of 
the Bible, but now I love to read it ; and ’twas 
a real treat to me to hear you preach Sunday. 
It seems as though I’d got some new eyes, 
and new feelings about everything. And it’s 
all come about so strange, too. ’Twas the 
best thing ever happened to me when Ben 
Goddard failed, and the best sermon ever 
preached in this town cousin Seth preached 
when he gave up his place. He might kept 
it, and most folks called him honest ; but if 
he had there’d never been a prayer meeting- 
out here, and I should lived on in my sins. 
Now he’s been prospered, and Ben Goddard ’s 


dorcas Armstrong’s experience. 349 

been prospered, and George Esty’s found a good 
friend, and I’ve come to my senses.” She was 
like a very child in her gladness, and her visit- 
ors could but smile as she enumerated the 
blessings which had resulted from Mr. Mer- 
rill’s uprightness. 

These were not all. New surroundings had 
impressed Mrs. Murray with more earnest 
convictions of duty, and enabled her to live as 
one who must give account to God rather than 
to man. Brent was an active Christian, and 
while maintaining an honorable position as a 
scholar, so conducting himself upon all occa- 
sions that even his father was forced to ac- 
knowledge there was no cause for anxiety on 
his behalf. Frequent letters from him cheered 
his mother, and encouraged her to hope for the 
time when the members of her family would 
rejoice in a common faith and a common 
Saviour. 

During the winter vacation he, with his sis- 
ter, was at home, happier far than they had 
been the previous year. Frank Clifford was 
at the parsonage, and the vacation was only 


350 


FATHER MERRILL. 


too short for all they wished to accomplish. 
There were visits to be made, meetings to be 
attended, and some books to be enjoyed* to- 
gether. 

Dorcas Armstrong invited them to dinner, 
when she took occasion to thank Brent for 
having spoken to her of her neglected duty. 
“I .remembered your words,” she said. “I 
knew you really wanted me to be a Christian. 
It seemed to me that everybody was thinking 
about religion, whether they talked about it or 
not. I was all hemmed in by Christians, and 
now I’m trying to go along with them. The 
children, too, are trying to walk in the path to 
heaven. I wish you’d both be ministers. I’d 
make a minister of Henry, if he had a turn 
that way ; but he’d rather make houses than 
do most anything else.” 

This led to some inquiries, and it was found 
that the boy had a decided taste for architect- 
ural drawing. 

“You can be just as good a Christian with- 
out being a minister,” remarked Frank Clif- 
ford, in response to a question asked by Henry 


dorcas Armstrong's experience. 351 

Wyman. “I choose to be a minister; but 
that is no reason why you should. With ad- 
vantages, you might make something of your 
talent for drawing.” 

“ He can have the advantages,” said Dorcas 
Armstrong. “ I’ve nobody to do for but these 
children. My sister and her children are dead, 
and I don’t think I shall look after her hus- 
band. I thought one while I could take care 
of cousin Seth and his wife ; but they don’t 
need much of my help. We’ll see about Henry 
next fall. The master said something about 
his drawing last winter ; but so many things 
happened, I most forgot about it.” 

To Henry Wyman next fall seemed far off 
in the future ; but the months succeeded each 
other so rapidly, each bringing its own work 
and its own pleasures, that he was hardly pre- 
pared for it when it came. 

As Mr. Stearns had advised, he entered a 
school where drawing was made a speciality, 
and yet where the ordinary branches of study 
received proper attention. 

“ Seems as though all the boys were going 


352 FATHER MERRILL. 

to school except Ben Goddard,” said mother 
Merrill, a little sadly. “ I feel bad about him. 
For my part I’d rather he’d take the interest 
money and go to school with it.” 

“ So had I, mother. But he won’t hear to 
it,” was the reply. “ He says there’s time 
enough. He an’t quite nineteen yet, and I 
guess, if the truth was known, he’s studied a 
good deal the last two years and a half. 
They’re making money fast, and perhaps an- 
other year he’ll be willing to let somebody else 
do the coloring.” 

The young man thought it possible that he 
might do this. He was very anxious to com- 
mence a regular course of study ; but above 
all things was he anxious that his father’s debts 
should be paid. 

In this instance the son had influenced the 
father more than the father had influenced the 
son, not only as regarded business, but also 
where moral and spiritual interests were con- 
cerned. The consistent conduct, the regular 
attendance upon the ordinances of religion, 
and the occasional word of appeal were not 
lost upon him. 


dorcas Armstrong’s experience. 353 

Mr. Goddard was learning that godliness is 
no hinderance to worldly prosperity ; that he 
who honors God most devoutly will labor most 
faithfully ; and he who looks forward to a 
reward, enduring as eternity, has a more pow- 
erful incentive to action than he whose expec- 
tations are bounded by the narrow limits of 
this life. 

23 




CHAPTER XIX. 

THE BLESSING THAT MAKETH RICH. 

N the history of a family or a com- 
munity the most important events 
are sometimes crowded into a nar- 
row space of time, leaving the coming months 
or years to be marked by few striking inci- 
dents. So was it in the community of which 
I write. 

All had been moved by a common regret 
when Father Merrill left his old home, and all 
felt the deepest interest in his welfare and 
that of his wife. To use Dorcas Armstrong’s 
words, “ there was something happening all 
the time for two years,” and then the current 
of events flowed on smoothly. 

Mr. Merrill no longer considered himself 
poor; he was “getting forehanded,” as the 

354 



THE BLESSING THAT MAKETH RICH. 355 

neighbors said, while he was richer in friends 
than ever before. By many who might never 
have known him, had not his fortune been as 
it was, he was quoted as an example of holy 
living. 

George Esty, far away, surrounded by the 
hum and bustle of business, never forgot the 
dear old people who had taken him to their 
home and heart. Next to his parents, he loved 
and honored them, hoping for the time when 
he might in some way repay their kindness. 

Not once had he faltered in his Christian 
course, not once betrayed the trust reposed in 
him. In a visit to his home he had reviewed 
all the past, and been reinstated in the con- 
fidence of his mother. A certain part of his 
salary was devoted to his family, and as this 
was increased from year to year, his boyhood’s 
dreams tended to their fulfillment. 

On the third anniversary oh his return to 
the city he stood again by the side of Father 
Merrill. Much changed he was, yet the same 
in his frank manliness and generous affection. 

“ It has been well with you,” said the old 


356 


FATHER MERRILL. 


man, closely scanning his face. “You are 
older and wiser than when we parted ; but the 
world has gone well with you. Ah ! George, 
your coming now is different from your other 
coming.” 

“Yes, sir,” answered the visitor, in a husky 
voice. “ God has blessed me, and I am happy 
to know that he has blessed you.” 

“Yes, my boy, God has blessed us, as he 
blesses those who put their trust in him. His 
promises are sure. In him is no variableness 
nor shadow of turning.” 

“ But, Father Merrill, I have heard people 
say that Christians fare the hardest in this 
world.” 

“ So have I, and it has been said so often 
that a great many people believe it. Thank 
God, in our country and in these days it can’t 
be true. To be real live Christians is just to 
make the best of all the faculties God has 
given us. Folks ought to read the Bible and 
pray ; but if they do that without plowing or 
sowing, they won’t have any harvest. The 
best farmer will have the best crops, whether 


THE BLESSING THAT MAKETH RICH. 357 

he’s a Christian or not It’s likely you’ve 
heard me talk this way before now ; but, as 
our minister says, other things equal, the 
Christian stands the best chance in the world. 
There’s old Veezy Butterworth now. You 
must go out and see him while you’re here. 
Getting religion has made him all over. He 
works every day regular as a clock, and he’ll 
come out a little ahead this year. All along 
this road the farms have improved since the 
owners became Christians. That’s the way 
’tis here. Now, how is it in the city ? If a 
young man wanted to get business there, would 
it be anything against him if he had the name 
of being an active, consistent Christian ? ” 

“ No, indeed, it would not,” answered George 
Esty, emphatically. “It -would be the best 
recommendation he could have, so far as his 
character was concerned. But, then, you 
must admit that Christians are often severely 
afflicted. Your children all died, while your 
neighbor, perhaps making no pretension to 
being a Christian, missed not one from his 


358 FATHER MERRILL. 

“ True, George. But such sorrows come, 
sooner or later, to many, — those who love 
God, and those who love him not. Why, I 
can not tell. I only know that God does all 
things well. He never explains his dealings, 
yet it may be that I needed the discipline to 
make me a better Christian. God may have 
had work for me to do outside my own family. 
If my children had lived to settle around me, 
and have families of their own, my heart might 
all been bound up in them, so I should forget 
others. Now I’m father and grandfather to so 
many, I couldn’t be very selfish if I tried. 
Don’t think, though, that I didn’t love my 
children, for I did. ’Twas hard, to be recon- 
ciled to losing them all ; but ’twas so much 
harder for mother, I most forgot myself trying* 
to comfort her.” 

Here the old man # paused to wipe the tears 
from his eyes ; but loyalty to his Master moved 
him to add, “ Even if it was true now, as it 
was in the days of Paul, that so far as worldly 
things are concerned, Christians are of all men 
most miserable, it would still be the hight of 


THE BLESSING THAT MAKETH RICH. 359 

folly to sacrifice eternity for time. But we 
don’t make sacrifices, George. What have I 
ever done ? When God lays his hand heavy 
upon his creatures, what difference does it 
make if they rebel against him, and even curse 
him ? They are in his power all the same. 
Christians are no more dependent upon him 
than others. Another thing : when Christians 
forget their duty, God sometimes draws them 
back to himself by discipline. When the idols 
of their hearts are broken, they turn to him 
for comfort.” - 

“ Yes, sir ; I don’t doubt it. I don’t expect 
to fail of being a prosperous merchant because 
I try to live, a Christian life ; but it always 
makes me stronger to hear you express your 
faith in religion. I’ve often wished you could 
talk for me when I’ve been called upon to de- 
fend our common faith.” 

“ I han’t any time to do your work,” said 
Father Merrill, with a smile. “ We all of us 
ought to be able to give a reason for the faith 
that is in us ; but a consistent Christian life is 
the strongest argument in favor of religion. 


360 FATHER MERRILL. 

Look round here, in some of the old houses, 
and you’ll find them ready made. There’s 
cousin Dorcas, now, just about the happiest 
woman you ever see,- and to my mind, next to 
mother, just about the best. She leads her 
family in prayer, night and morning; and 
there an’t a Sunday but what she’s in her 
place in the meeting-house. ’Twas a good 
while before she really made up her mind that 
she was a Christian ; but when she did, she 
come right forward and joined the church. 
But there, George, I don’t know when to stop 
talking with you. Mother ’ll think I’m going 
to keep you all to myself ; and you’d better go 
in and see her while I look after my work.” 

• Mrs. Merrill talked less to their visitor than 
did her husband. She preferred to listen, 
speaking only to express her pleasure in what 
she heard, or ask a question. She was inter- 
ested in everything pertaining to George Esty’s 
success. 

“ I’m so glad you’ve been prospered,” she 
said, at length. “ There han’t been a day 
since I first see you but what I’ve prayed that 
you might prosper.” 


THE BLESSING THAT MAKETH RICH. 36 1 

“ And not one day but you have done me 
good/’ was the reply. “If it is ever in my 
power to repay you for some of your kindness, 
I shall consider myself fortunate.” 

“ You’ve more than paid us, George. It’s a 
good deal for old folks, like father and me, to 
have somebody to think of us. We’ve got a 
pretty large family, and they’re all good chil- 
dren. Why, you don’t know, George, how 
near they seem to us ! ” 

“ Well, mother, it’s a blessed thing for them ; 
but it seems to me the benefit is nearly all on 
one side. You .give to us, while we give you 
nothing in return.” 

“ Why; George, how can you say that, after 
bringing me such a handsome shawl ? I really 
believe if father and me was poor as Miss 
Simpson, we should have everything we 
needed brought to us.” 

“ I really think you would,” said the young 
man, laughing at the idea of poverty with 
such assurance of possession. “ In that case 
I might do something to express my grati- 
tude.” 


362 FATHER MERRILL. 

“ Well, George, I’m glad we don’t need that 
kind of help. But if you think we’ve done 
anything for you, you do for somebody else. 
If you ever see a poor boy in trouble because 
he’s done wrong, help him do better, if he will, 
for father’s sake and mine.” 

George Esty had been mindful of this 
already, and could have rejoiced the heart 
of his friend by a recital of his efforts in be- 
half of others. Occasionally, during his visit, 
he spoke of some tempted ones to whom he 
had given a helping hand, but the half was not 
told. The visit was too short to satisfy his old 
friends, yet the time was so well improved 
that he saw most of the places and people 
whom he held in special remembrance. 

One day he spent at the parsonage, where 
he learned more of Mr. Merrill’s prospects 
than he had before heard. Mr. Goddard had 
so far retrieved his fortune, that there was no 
doubt of his being able to cancel his entire in- 
debtedness. 

“ I understand that Mr. Cofran is willing to 
retain the mill in his possession until such 


THE BLESSING THAT MAKETH RICH. 363 

time as Mr. Goddard can redeem it, at its ap- 
praised value, when it changed owners,” said 
the clergyman in the course of conversation. 
“ Ben Goddard, the son, who has really been 
at the head of business, is away at school, and 
he wouldn’t have gone if he hadn’t been sure 
that Father Merrill would be paid. If the old 
place was for sale, I’ve no doubt Mr. Goddard 
would buy it, even at an advanced price.” 

“ Is there any prospect of its being for sale ?” 
asked George Esty. 

“ I don’t know that there is,” was the reply. 
“ But Mrs. Murray’s health is much improved, 
and her husband is away on business a large 
part of the time. It may be that he would 
sell. He is no farmer ; neither is his son ; 
and it’s not easy to hire a man who will carry 
on such a place to advantage.” 

“ You would be glad to have your old neigh- 
bors back.” 

“ Yes, I should ; although we are strongly 
attached to Mr. Murray’s family. He is a no- 
ble, generous-hearted man, and I am indebted 
to him for many favors.” 


364 


FATHER MERRILL. 


“ Has he changed his views upon religious 
matters ? ” 

“ I don’t know that his views have changed. 
I know, however, that he objected to his son’s 
making a public profession of religion, and 
after a year withdrew his objections. Mrs. 
Murray and Brent united with the church at 
the same time. He was not present on the 
occasion ; but I have faith that he will yet see 
the truth.. Brent is doing finely, and his 
father is very proud of him. He and Frank 
Clifford entered college together, and I have 
no doubt they will graduate with honor.” 

“ And will they study a profession to- 
gether ? ” 

“ I suppose not. Frank is to study the- 
ology. Brent thought for a while that he 
must be a preacher ; but after much consider- 
ation he decided to study law, as he had in- 
tended before he had any interest in religion, 
and as his father was very anxious he should 
do. I think Frank advised him to this, and I 
was very glad that he did so. Mr. Murray’s 
wishes should be considered. I have reason 


THE BLESSING THAT MAKETH RICH. 365 

to know that he was very much gratified with 
Brent’s decision.” 

He was, indeed ; and the manner in which 
his son announced this decision did much to 
soften his prejudice against religion. “ With 
my present feelings, were no one else con- 
cerned, I Should prefer to study theology,” 
said Brent. “ But I am glad to defer to your 
wishes ; so I shall strive to be a first-class 
lawyer, and gratify your ambition.” 

“ Have you no ambition yourself?” asked 
Mr. Murray. 

“ Indeed I have,” was the reply. “ I am as 
anxious to make my mark in the world as you 
can be to have me ; and I hope to do as much 
good, in my way, as I could if I were a clergy- 
man.” 

“ Then you would be a clergyman after all, 
if you considered only your own preferences?” 

“ Yes, sir ; I think I should.” 

“ Then, perhaps, I ought not to have said 
anything against it. But, my son, it would be 
very hard for me to give up my long-cherished 
hopes for you. I have given up a great deal 


366 


FATHER MERRILL. 


already, and it seems to me sometimes that 
you are all drifting away from me. Yet, if I 
have been wrong, I am glad you have found 
the right.” 

“ Thank you a thousand times for saying 
that, father,” exclaimed Brent. “ I know you 
are wrong. I am as certain of that as I am 
that the sun shines in the heavens. I hope I 
have not seemed undutiful to you since I pro- 
fessed to be a Christian.” 

“You have not, my son. You have given 
me no cause for anxiety. But it is a constant 
wonder to me that one like you should become 
a convert to a religion so narrow and limited 
in its range.” 

“ Oh, father ! it is not limited ; it is bound- 
less as God’s immensity, reaching from the 
beginning of all things to the very outermost 
verge of eternity. And, father, my faith in 
what you call a narrow religion is all that has 
saved me, even for this world. I. could never 
be such a man as you are, — honest, upright, 
and honorable, — while ignoring my account- 
ability to God. It is not in my nature. I 


THE BLESSING THAT MAKETH RICH. 367 

need just the restraining influence which I 
now feel, and which I trust will keep me ever 
near to God. You have reason to be thankful 
that I am a Christian.” 

Mr. Murray looked at his son admiringly. 
If he could take away this living, breathing, 
inspiriting faith, what could he give in return ? 
To his honor be it said, that henceforth he had 
no wish to make his son other than he was. 
If his family were drifting from him, they 
surely were not going downward, as he men- 
tally acknowledged, whenever he looked at the 
happy face of his wife, and noted how her 
higher and better nature had developed since 
her feet rested upon a sure foundation. 

In the deepest sympathies of his family he 
had no part, yet were not his home comforts 
abridged. Never had wife or children given 
him truer love, and never were they dearer to 
his heart. Jennie had made no public profes- 
sion of religion, yet it was apparent to all who 
knew her that she was actuated by Christian 
principles. A general favorite, and a really 
beautiful girl, she was especially dear to her 


368 


FATHER MERRILL. 


parents, while she was the pet and pride of her 
brother. 

The time had long passed when Mrs. Mer- 
rill considered it a trial to enter her old home. 
She was now often there in the pleasant west 
room, a welcome and honored guest, talking of 
all the mercies which had crowned her days, 
and rejoicing in the prosperity of others. She 
had no regrets to waste upon what had seemed 
to her afflictions. She was fully repaid for all 
sacrifices. Mrs. Murray clung to her as to a 
mother, while the young people were glad to 
sit at her feet, and learn of her wisdom. 

Ben Goddard had often said he should never 
be quite as happy as he wished to be until Mr. 
and Mrs. Merrill were established in their 
rightful place, but the old people themselves 
found their present home one of comfort, and 
Dorcas Armstrong had been heard to say she 
hoped Mr. Murray would never sell at any 
price. 

She “couldn’t get along without cousin Seth 
and his wife for neighbors.” Henry was away 
at school much of the time, and his chosen 


THE BLESSING THAT MAKETH RICH. 369 

employment would soon take him from home 
altogether. Maggie, too, must be educated 
and how could Dorcas live alone ? The idea 
was not to be entertained. If Ben Goddard ever 
paid his debt, — and she could not but hope 
that he would, — cousin Seth could stay where 
he was, and " be well enough off.” His income 
was sufficient “ for all reasonable expenses, 
and for charity.” Thus she "reasoned, and 
sometimes she thought so anxiously of this that 
she expressed her thoughts to others. 

“ You should kept them children to work, 
and then you’d had somebody to live with 
you,” suggested a neighbor. “ I wonder at 
you, Dorcas, to spend so much money on 
them, when they an’t nothing to you.” 

“ An’t nothing to me ! ” repeated the woman 
thus addressed. “ They’re just my children, 
that’s all. The Lord gave them to me, and I 
mean to do my duty' by them. I’ve lived 
alone, and I suppose I could again, though I 
don’t want to. But, anyway, the children shall 
go to school, and be all they can in the world. 
Henry would staid and worked on the farm 
24 


370 


FATHER MERRILL. 


if I’d asked him to, but I wouldn’t. As long 
as he’s a Christian, it don’t make much differ- 
ence what he does. He’ll try to live consist- 
ent anywhere, and Maggie shan’t be ashamed 
of her ignorance, as I am of mine, if she’ll 
make good use of her advantages. They’re 
just as welcome to the money I spend for 
them as the minister is to what I give him.” 

This was all she could say, for every one 
knew it was a real pleasure to her to give to 
Mr. Stearns and his family. She had a plan 
for educating one of his boys, and already a 
fund was accumulating for that purpose. To 
the clergyman and his wife she went for advice 
in regard to her children, as she always called 
Maggie and Henry Wyman. The piano, which 
found its way into the old sitting-room, and 
over which Maggie cried for joy, was pur- 
chased by Mr. Stearns during a visit to the 
city. A great piece of extravagance many 
called it ; but Dorcas Armstrong had earned 
her money, and no one could prevent her 
spending it as she pleased. 



CHAPTER XX. 

A SUDDEN DEATH. 

HE visit of George Esty was a great 
event in the quiet neighborhood, 
and the interest attendant upon it 
had hardly subsided, when the whole town 
was excited by rumors of a railroad disaster, of 
which Mr. Murray was one of the victims. 
Henry Wyman heard of it late in the evening, 
and rode at once to the village to ascertain the 
truth. 

At the parsonage he learned all that was 
certainly known. Mr. Murray had been in- 
jured, and his family had received a dispatch 
to that effect. Mrs. Murray and her daughter 
had left home with Mr. Stearns, and would 
reach him at the earliest possible moment. 

The next evening Mrs. Stearns heard 

37i 



372 


FATHER MERRILL. 


from her husband. There was no hope for 
the wounded man : he must die. His family 
were with him, and he was fully conscious of 
his condition. 

This news was received at the hour ap- 
pointed for the weekly prayer meeting, and 
Father Merrill, who conducted the meeting, 
desired that the time might be spent in prayer 
for the conversion of the dying man. There 
was only a little band of brothers and sisters, 
and he requested that every voice might be 
heard. The request met with a hearty re- 
sponse. For more than two hours these 
Christians prayed, as one prays for the life 
nearest and dearest, until they felt the assur- 
ance that a blessing would be granted. 

And how was it in the room where lay the 
man who, all his life, had trusted to his own 
wisdom and his own strength ? Suffering, 
struggling for the breath which grew shorter 
and shorter, he lay with the death damp on 
his brow. He had been able to converse with 
his family, assuring them of his love, and ad- 
vising them in regard to the future, but now 
he was fast nearing eternity. 


A SUDDEN DEATH. 


373 


There was another by his bedside — an old 
woman, who watched his every motion, and 
administered to every want. She had been 
there before wife or child, doing all that 
could be done to alleviate his sufferings. He 
was one for whom she had prayed through 
long years, and to whom she was much in- 
debted. Mr. Murray was on his way to see 
her when the accident occurred, almost at her 
home ; and, having been summoned to his 
aid, she was first to reach him, first to hear 
his lamentations for a misspent life. 

Elspeth Bawn had expected that he would 
one day bewail his sin, but not thus did she 
expect it would come. Not thus would she 
have chosen. * But she did not falter in her 
duty. She remembered the beautiful boy 
who had called him father, and whose eyes 
she had closed, and looking up for strength, 
she endeavored to point him to the Lamb 
of God who taketh away the sins of the 
world. 

He knew it all. He had heard it so often 
in his boyhood that he could never forget ; 


374 


FATHER MERRILL. 


yet he clung to this woman, begging her to re- 
peat, again and again, the promises which offer 
hope to the most guilty. As she had prayed 
for him, so now she prayed with him through 
the weary watches of the night and the early 
day. 

Then came Brent, who, when convinced that 
his father must die, implored him to cast him- 
self upon the mercy of God. “ It is your only 
hope,” said the son, forcing back the tears, that 
he might better do his duty. 

" I will throw myself upon God’s mercy,” 
replied the father ; “ but it is the eleventh hour 
with me. Who knows that he will receive 
me?” 

“ I know that he will, if you come to him in 
faith and humility. He never refused any, 
and he will not refuse you,” said Brent. 

By noon Mrs. Murray, Jennie, and Mr. 
Stearns were with him ; and after the first 
greetings were over, and the first tears wiped 
away, he asked the clergyman to pray with 
him. The world was of little value to him 
then. His theories were of little worth. The 


A SUDDEN DEATH. 


375 


mysterious spirit of beauty and power per- 
vading all nature could give him no support in 
this his hour of need. 

“ I thank God that my dear ones have found 
a more excellent way than that in which I 
would have led them,” he said, tenderly. “ If 
I fail of salvation myself, they will be happy. 
I have not dragged them down.” 

His wife bent over him, feeling almost that 
her life would go out with his, yet struggling 
to say, “ Thy will, O God, be done.” If only 
he might receive assurance of forgiveness, and 
be permitted to rejoice in hope of a glorious 
immortality, she could feel that their parting 
was not for ever. 

He believed he had committed himself to 
God. He acknowledged that for months he 
had been fully convinced of his error in regard 
to religion, and that he had intended to confess 
this to his family. He was going to see El- 
speth Bawn for the purpose of inviting her to 
accompany him home, and he hoped that now 
she would go to comfort his wife. 

The day waned to its close. Still there was 


376 FATHER MERRILL. 

no change in the feelings of Mr. Murray. The 
Saviour’s face was hidden from him. He did 
not deserve mercy, yet he wished all to pray 
that it might be granted. In the evening, as 
they watched beside him, praying silently or 
audibly, as they were moved, he exclaimed, 
“ My sins are forgiven ! Thank God, my 
sins are forgiven ! Oh, the riches of grace ! 
The fullness there is in Christ Jesus ! Hence- 
forth there is for me no condemnation. My 
sins are forgiven ! I have seen the Saviour. 
Brent, my son, preach Christ .and him cruci- 
fied, — Jennie, darling, preach Christ and him 
crucified, — Wife, dearest and best, preach 
Christ, — Mr. Stearns, preach only that, — 
Christ, the hope of the world.” 

It was wonderful to listen to him as he 
breathed out his life, with every breath utter- 
ing some word of rejoicing or counsel. His 
mother’s teachings came back to him ; the 
prayers he had heard, and the Bible truths he 
had learned. He talked of them, and of that 
mother whom he soon expected to meet. 
Then, mindful of those who had shared his 


A SUDDEN DEATH. 


377 


false belief, he left messages for them, implor- 
ing them to repentance while yet there was 
time. 

“ Brent, my son, you will always care for 
your mother,” he said, after some moments of 
silence ; and, being assured of this, he added, 
“ I know I can trust you. Thank God, you are 
a Christian. Oh ! if my life could be spared 
I would preach the truth through all the land. 
Tell Father Merrill, and all the Christians at 
home, never to grow weary in their work. 
My sins are forgiven ! ” 

His strength was rapidly failing. He took 
each one by the hand, pressed his cold lips to 
theirs, and then closed his eyes, as if to shut 
out all earthly sights. “ Mother ! Harry ! ” he 
murmured a little after. “ All safe, — Christ, 
the hope of the world, — Heaven opened, — 
Jesus, Saviour, I come to Thee.” 

Then all was still. ’The pulse beat more 
feebly, and at midnight a widow and her fa- 
therless children went from the room where 
lay their dead. 

Elspeth Bawn and Mr. Stearns were left to 


378 FATHER MERRILL. 

make all necessary preparations for the re- 
moval of the body. The one went about with 
a triumphant smile upon her lips, the other 
strangely cheerful. With this terrible afflic- 
tion had come such a manifestation of God’s 
goodness that the Christian could not be 
wholly cast down. 

Brent supported his mother tenderly and 
lovingly, reminding her of the blessing which 
had been granted, and the better country 
where two now waited until all should be 
gathered safe at last. “ We have prayed that 
father might be reconciled to God, and we be- 
lieve that he is. It was not for us to dictate 
the way in which this should be done, dear 
mother.” 

“ No, my son, no. God help me to submit 
to his will,” was her tearful reply. 

Mr. Murray was but one of many victims, 
and his family but one of many which suffered 
bereavement. Sharing the sympathy of the 
community, they were assisted to leave as soon 
as possible, while at home there was no lack 
of willing hands to do all that was necessary. 


A SUDDEN DEATH. 


379 


Mrs. Merrill and Dorcas Armstrong went to 
the house of the deceased, and Father Merrill, 
old man as he was, started to meet the mourn- 
ing company. Friends and relatives were no- 
tified of the sad event, and in accordance with 
a request forwarded by Brent, preparations 
were made for the funeral. 

Mr. Stearns might well have pleaded fatigue 
as an excuse for not officiating on this occa- 
sion, but he had a message to deliver ; and 
not one who listened to him that day, as he 
stood by the coffin of his friend, but realized 
this. If, during his life, the influence of Mr. 
Murray had been against religion, in death he 
spoke eloquently for Christ. 

A long procession of mourners, followed by 
many neighbors and friends, walked slowly to 
the village cemetery, and saw the body con- 
signed to its last resting-place. Before the 
winter’s snow should fall, another form, now 
miles away, would be brought to make the 
family group complete. 

This was Mrs. Murray’s wish. No place 
could be to her as this quiet country town, 


FATHER MERRILL. 


380 

where she had found her Saviour, and no 
people so dear as those who here surrounded 
her. Harry would seem near to her could she 
stand by his grave with old Elspeth. 

How much there was to hear of the last 
days of her son — much which she had never 
known, and which the good Scotch woman 
now delighted to tell her ! Then she was told 
of her husband’s generous kindness to one 
whose religion he contemned, and of the con- 
versations which had been held between his 
nurse and himself before she had reached him. 
There was much to comfort her ; and when, 
on a pleasant day in the late autumn, a few 
friends gathered around a newly opened grave, 
there was joy mingled with her sorrow. Fa- 
ther and son rested side by side. 

Harry seemed sometimes to speak through 
the lips of her who had taught him the way 
of salvation; and not long after the second 
grave had been opened and closed in the Mur- 
ray lot, a precious message was received from 
the dead. There came to Brent a rough, 
stained sheet of paper, covered with nearly 


A SUDDEN DEATH. 


38r 


illegible writing. The address, however, writ- 
ten in full at the head of the sheet, was still 
distinct — “ Brent Murray, my dear son.” 

An accompanying note explained that it 
had been found under a heap of rubbish, and 
thinking it might be valued by him to whom it 
was addressed, even discolored as it was, a 
stranger had preserved it. Valued it was, in- 
deed. Brent Murray studied every word, care- 
fully retracing every line, until he was sure of 
each sentence. 

It was a confession of his father’s faith, un- 
finished, but still sufficient to leave no doubt 
of its full import. The death-bed repentance 
was not merely the despairing act of one smit- 
ten with a sudden fear of God’s retributive 
justice. In this letter, penciled as he rode to 
see old Elspeth, he had expressed his happi- 
ness in the thought that, despite his influence, 
his family had trusted in the living God. “ I 
believe you are right, my son. I have long 
believed this. I have been wrong. God for- 
give me, and help me to retrieve the past. I 
have tried to pr — ” Here paper and pencil 
must have fallen from his hand. 


382 


FATHER MERRILL. 


Not for his whole patrimony would Brent 
Murray have parted with this stained sheet. 
It was more to him than houses or lands. 
Mrs. Murray read the message, coming to 
them after so many days of silence, eagerly 
scanning the lines, and thanking God that 
thus assurance was made doubly sure. Mr. 
Stearns, Father Merrill, and all interested in 
the family, shared their joy. 

In health, with mind unimpaired, and in 
full possession of his powers, Mr. Murray 
had left this testimony, which no one could 
deny. His old friends could not say that 
he had given his adherence to religion only 
when pain and weakness had beclouded his 
brain. It was a well-considered act, to which 
he had been forced by strong convictions of 
duty. 

Brent still lingered, at home, unwilling to 
leave his mother in her loneliness until she 
proposed that he should return to his studies. 
Her daughter and Elspeth Bawn would remain 
with her, and she was anxious that he should 
lose no time on her account. 


A SUDDEN DEATH. 383 

Before leaving, however, there was some 
business to be transacted. Mr. Cofran was 
chosen to attend to this, although Brent’s 
judgment was consulted at every step. In a 
few months he would attain his majority, and 
meanwhile Mr. Cofran could be implicitly 
trusted. The first question asked was in re- 
lation to the farm, which had never been a 
source of profit to the late owner. 

“ If it is for sale, I know of a purchaser,” 
said Mr. Cofran. “ Mr. Goddard will be glad 
to buy it for his creditor, Mr. Merrill. He had 
intended to propose this to your father, and he 
can pay cash down, unless you ask a large 
advance on the original price. I suppose you 
know why the place was sold to your father.” 

“ Yes, sir, I do,” was the reply. “ I have 
often heard the story, and I have seen the 
young man who went to work to redeem the 
place. A splendid fellow he is, too. For my 
part I should prefer that Father Merrill should 
take the farm into his own hands. Mother 
can build a house here in the village, and I 
presume she will think best to sell. I know 


3^4 


FATHER MERRILL. 


she would be glad to see the old people in 
their true home.” 

Mrs. Murray was consulted. She would 
hardly have opposed her son under any cir- 
cumstances, but in this case her wishes coin- 
cided with his. She would have Mr. and Mrs. 
Merrill for neighbors, and so soon as might be 
a contract was made for the return of the 
property to its former owner at the price for 
which it had been sold. 




CHAPTER XXI. 

father merrill’s thanksgiving. 

HERE was not a person in town who 
did not rejoice that Father Merrill 
was “ as well off as ever ; ” but 
many wished he had “ been paid the money, 
and staid where he was.” Dorcas Armstrong, 
unselfish as she was, and dearly as she loved 
her cousins, found it hard to reconcile herself 
to losing them from her immediate neighbor- 
hood. She would have given them the Mason 
farm outright, if thus she could have retained 
them. 

As for the two most interested, they were 
so grateful for all the favors showered upon 
them, that they could find no words adequate 
to express their emotion. The Lord s hand 
was so plainly visible to them that they were 
25 385 



386 FATHER MERRILL. 

looking forward to what might happen here- 
after. They said this to each other the first 
evening spent together in the old west room, 
after they were reinstated in their home. 

“ I’m waiting for something more, mother. 
The last five years have been our best years. 
I’ve seen wondrous things in that time, things 
that make me feel God’s presence as I never 
did before. What if we’d staid here, mother, 
when the neighbors wanted us to ? ” 

“’Twould all been wrong if you had, and 
we’d been punished for our sin. You never 
could recommended religion after you’d showed 
that you counted property above Christian 
honesty.” 

“ No, mother ; and I’m afraid Dorcas wouldn’t 
been a Christian. There mightn’t been any 
prayer meeting in Dan Mason’s house, and 
Mr. Murray and his family might lived on just 
they were. And then there’s George Esty. 
Let us give thanks to God for all his mercies.” 

Kneeling, they offered such thanks as those 
may whose hearts are burdened by the grati- 
tude they feel. Father Merrill was gifted in 


father merrill’s thanksgiving. 387 

prayer ; but his words were now strangely 
broken and his voice husky. No adversity 
could have so humbled him before God, no 
affliction so impressed him with a sense of his 
own unworthiness. 

Mr. Goddard’s family came over to rejoice 
with them, and then there was a holiday in- 
deed. From the oldest to the youngest, each 
brought some token of regard, something 
which was to be counted among the house- 
hold treasures. Not fearful or trembling was 
the father now, as clasping the outstretched 
hand of his friend, he exclaimed, “Thank God 
that I have lived to see this day ! ” 

“ Do you really thank God ? ” asked the old 
man, seriously. 

“Yes, Father Merrill, I do,” was the reply. 
“ Perhaps not as you do, because I am not 
such a Christian as you are ; but in my way I 
thank him.” 

“And do you thank him for having sent 
his Son into the world to suffer and die for 
sinners ? ” 

“ I do, Father Merrill ; and I hope through 


388 


FATHER MERRILL. 


his grace to be saved. If I know my own 
heart, I have truly repented of my sins. I 
should never be what I am but for you : 
never,” repeated this man, as tears, of which 
he was not ashamed, dimmed his eyes. “ I 
never thought of you without remembering 
what you had said to me about my duty, and 
then your example has been more eloquent 
than your words. My Ben, too, he has 
preached to me, and at last I found that my 
whole family would enter the kingdom before 
me.” 

“ This is better news than you brought me 
when you brought a deed of this place/’ said 
Mr. Merrill. “ I’ve been praying 1 might hear 
it ; but I’d said so much to you I thought ’twas 
best not to say any more. I knew Ben would 
have more influence than I could. A good 
deal has happened since I went away from 
here five years ago, and I never should blamed 
you if I hadn’t come back.” 

“ I should have blamed myself,” was the 
reply. “But I really believe my failure was 
the best thing ever happened to me. Ben 


father merrill’s thanksgiving. 389 

won’t get through his studies so young, but 
his experience the last years will do him good 
all his life. • He’ll have more sympathy for 
people that earn their living with their hands, 
and a minister needs to have that. If I an’t 
mistaken, he’ll make a good minister.” 

“ I don’t doubt it. He’ll please people to 
begin with, and the more they see him the 
better they’ll like him. He and Frank Clifford 
will make first-rate ministers, not much alike, 
but both good in their own way.” 

“And Brent Murray. I heard his father 
wanted him to be a preacher at last.” 

“ Yes, he wanted everybody to preach Christ 
and him crucified ; but I think Brent will 
study law, as he intended. I shouldn’t advise 
him to change. We need Christian lawyers 
as well as ministers. I’m glad we’re going to 
have him near us some of the time. You 
know Mrs. Murray has bought the Bancroft 
house, and it will be repaired as soon as the 
weather is warmer.” 

Here a call from some of the younger people 
interrupted this conversation, and presently 


390 


FATHER MERRILL. 


there was such a confusion of tongues that 
Mrs. Goddard was tempted to exercise her 
authority. But Mrs. Merrill, so -glad and so 
happy that nothing could trouble her, insisted 
that there was none too much noise. 

Ben, junior, less demonstrative than his 
brothers and sisters on this occasion, yet 
manifested the greatest satisfaction. His fond- 
est hopes had been realized, and his best as- 
pirations gave promise of fulfillment. He 
found opportunity for a quiet talk with Father 
Merrill, and this was to him the best part of 
the visit ; but when the long anticipated day 
drew to a close, so much remained to be said 
that it was late before the guests bade their 
host and hostess good night. 

“ Now, if we could have a visit from George, 
’twould seem as though we was really settled,” 
remarked mother Merrill, as she busied her- 
self in returning chairs and footstools to their 
usual places. “ I want him to think of us as 
we be here. I’m glad to live here again, 
though I thought I didn’t care much about 
it. ’Twill be pleasant to see the corn and the 


father merrill’s thanksgiving. 391 

grain grow where they used to. I hope George 
will think he can come up, now the railroad 
runs so near.” 

“ I wish he would, mother ; but I don’t ex- 
pect it. We musn’t expect too much of him. 
Mr. Stearns says he’s going to be a grand 
business man, and Mr. Clapp will do well by 
him. It’s most time for us to have a letter 
from him. Strange how much I think of that 
boy, and how near he Seems to me. I wish I 
knew if Mabel’s boy was living. I’ve thought 
a good deal about him lately.” 

Mrs. Merrill was about to reply to this, when 
Charley Stearns came in, bringing a letter for 
grandpa, — just the letter which was expected. 
George Esty always wrote in such a frank, 
familiar way, that reading one of his epistles 
was next to seeing him, and the old people 
counted on their arrival. 

“He don’t forget us any more than we do 
him,” was mother Merrill’s comment. “ But I 
wish he wouldn’t thank us any more for what 
we done for him. It’s likely to me he’ll have 
a chance to do as much for somebody else.” 


392 


FATHER MERRILL. 


He did endeavor to improve his opportuni- 
ties for doing good ; but his sense of obliga- 
tion was so great, that his own efforts for 
others seemed insignificant when compared 
with the kindness he had received. Will 
Downs was not the only poor boy he had as- 
sisted, although, perhaps, Will had been most 
benefited and most grateful. 

One morning, about a month after he had 
written a congratulatory letter to Mr. and Mrs. 
Merrill, the little fellow came to him with a 
pitiful story about a young man that was sick 
and poor. The man had a wife and a child, 
and the neighbors said they had been most 
starved. Would Mr. Esty go to see them ? 

“ Mother told me to ask you,” said the boy. 
“ She says' the man won’t say much to any- 
body ; but perhaps he’ll talk to you.” 

After the store was closed the next evening, 
George Esty called upon Mrs. Downs, and 
from her learned more of the young man he 
was desired to visit. 

“ I noticed him when he first moved into the 
neighborhood, about three months ago, and he 


father merrill's thanksgiving. 393 

looked to me as though he’d been dissipated," 
remarked the woman. “ Them that live in the 
house with him say they han’t seen him when he 
wan’t sober ; but he’s terribly poor. He han’t 
had much work, and his wife’s so young she 
can’t know how to make the most of what he 
earns. I shouldn’t think she was more than 
sixteen. I’ve been in several times, but they 
an’t either of them inclined to talk. I thought, 
perhaps, you’d be the right one to find out 
about them." 

Mr. Esty went at once to the house where 
this stranger had found a home. Following 
the directions he had received, he rapped for 
admittance at the door of an upper room. A 
sweet faced woman, who, but for the child in 
her arms, might herself have been called a 
child, bade him enter, and offered him the only 
chair in the poor apartment. 

After some questions had been asked, which 
were answered with evident reluctance, the 
visitor said, “ I wish you would regard me as 
a friend. A few years ago, when I had done 
wrong, and was in great trouble, two old 


394 


FATHER MERRILL. 


people befriended me ; and when I tried to 
thank them, they told me to do for some one 
else what they had done for me. I can’t do as 
much for you as Father Merrill did for me, 
because you are not suffering as I was, but if 
you will give me your confidence, I will do 
what I can.” 

“ What was the name you said ? ” asked the 
sick man, for the first time looking at his vis- 
itor. “ Who was it helped you ? ” 

“ Father Merrill. Everybody calls him Fa- 
ther ; but his name is Seth.” 

“ Where does he live ? ” This question was 
asked more eagerly, and when answered, George 
Esty was startled by hearing, “ That man is 
my grandfather. My name is Seth Merrill 
Grant. I’ve always meant to go to my moth- 
er’s native town ; but I’ve put it off, as I have 
most every thing else I ought to have done. 
I was only six months old when my mother 
died, and my father died when I was ten years 
old, so I never heard much about my grand- 
parents. They were the old people that told 
you to help somebody ? ” 


FATHER MERRILLS THANKSGIVING. 395 

“Yes,” answered the visitor, not yet re- 
covered from his surprise. “ But are you sure 
they are your grandparents ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, I am. Nellie, give the gentleman 
the Bible. It’s one my mother’s father gave 
to her when she was married. You’ll find 
their names in it.*’ 

True, there they were : 

“ Mabel Merrill, 

From her Father, 

Seth Merrill.” 

“ I should know that writing anywhere,” 
said George Esty. “ I have heard Father 
Merrill speak of having a grandchild named 
for him. Now please regard me as acting for 
him, and tell me how I can be of service to you.” 

“ Nellie, just leave me alone with this gen- 
tleman a while,” said the sick man to his wife. 
“Take the baby into Mrs. Markland 4 s room. 
My wife, child as she is, thinks I’m a good 
man,” he added, when the door had closed be- 
hind her. “But she is mistaken ; though I’ve 
tried to be good to her. She is too young to 


396 


FATHER MERRILL. 


be married ; but when her mother died she 
was alone in the world, and she clung to me 
as her only friend. Poor Nellie ! • She has 
had a hard time. Will you tell me your name, 
so that I may know who I’m talking to ? ” 

This being done, the visitor seated himself 
by the bed, and listened to the history of a 
life which seemed to have been a struggle be- 
tween noble impulses and strong temptations 
to evil. Seth Grant’s father had thought to 
send him to his grandparents ; but neglecting 
to do this, his step-mother had found the boy 
too useful to be willing to part with him,, al- 
though she gave him little of mother love. 
At sixteen he commenced to learn a trade, 
after which he found plenty of employment 
until within a year. His habits, however, had 
been such that sometimes, for weeks, he would 
remain idle. Sure of good wages when he 
pleased to apply himself, he spent his money 
freely, and it was his kindness to her mother 
which had won the love of his wife. A mis- 
take in his work, made while partially intoxi- 
cated, which had caused a loss to his employer, 


father merrill’s thanksgiving. 397 

resulted in his discharge and consequent dis- 
grace. 

This occurred a few months after his mar- 
riage, and since then everything had gone 
wrong with him. His wife, “ poor Nellie,” as 
he called her, had been an incumbrance as he 
sought work in different places. He had come 
to this city, hoping to improve his condition, 
but he was a stranger, and it had been impos- 
sible for him to obtain employment of any 
kind ' sufficient to meet their necessary ex- 
penses. He had lived, day after day, without 
a full meal of even the coarsest food. 

“ Sometimes I had only a piece of bread ; 
but Nellie never went hungry,” he said. “ I 
told her I had eaten something before I came 
home ; but the day before I was taken down, I 
didn’t taste of a mouthful. She don’t know it, 
poor child. ’Twas starving made me sick ; 
and then I missed the liquor I’d been used to. 
I han’t tasted a drop since I came to this city ; 
and come what will, I’ve done with it. We’ve 
had good neighbors ; but it’s been so hard for 
me to take charity. I wouldn’t if it hadn’t 


398 


FATHER MERRILL. 


been for Nellie and the baby. I’d have died 
first. It wouldn’t make much difference if I 
was alone. I must die sometime ; and life 
han’t been so pleasant I need to cling to it. 
Excuse me, sir. Now I’ve begun to talk, it 
seems as though I couldn’t stop. I wish you’d 
tell me about my grandparents.” 

“ They are two of the best people in the 
world,” was George Esty’s quick reply. “ They 
live nearer to God than any others I have ever 
known, and they are universally respected. 
You have reason to be proud of them.” 

“And they have reason to be proud of 
me, a miserable good-for-nothing.” This was 
said, bitterly ; but before answer could be 
made, the speaker added, “I’m ashamed to 
look a good man or woman in the face. You 
don’t know what it is to feel like that.” 

“ Yes, I do. I know it by my own experi- 
ence. I know, too, that you can make your- 
self worthy of your relationship to Father 
Merrill. Let me help you. Do you need a 
physician ? ” 

“ No, sir. I only need something to eat. 


father merrill’s thanksgiving. 399 

There’s been enough brought in, but I couldn’t 
eat it. It chokes me when I try.” 

“ This isn’t a suitable room for you,” re- 
marked the visitor. 

“ It’s the best I could afford, and to-morrow 
my time’s up here. But if I could get able to 
work, and find work to do, I needn’t be a beg- 
gar.” 

“ You’re not a beggar,” was the comforting 
assurance given to the sick man. “ I owe a 
debt to your grandparents, and what I do for 
you is the same as done for them. Excuse 
me now for a while. I will see you again 
within an hour.” 

On the next landing George Esty met the 
pale-faced woman with her child, and stopping 
only to assure her that he would care for her 
husband, he hastened to Mrs. Downs, with 
whom he took counsel. Various plans were 
discussed, until Will said, “ Let them have the 
new kitchen and bedroom, and then we shall 
have as much room as we had when the old 
shed was here.” 

So it was agreed, and before ten o’clock the 


400 


FATHER MERRILL. 


family were settled in the rooms which Mrs. 
Downs had thought quite indispensable to her 
own comfort. Mr. Esty was to pay the rent, 
and provide all that was necessary until such 
time as the occupant was able to work. Mrs. 
Downs was told that her tenant was a relative 
of some of Mr. Esty’s friends, and this was 
sufficient to enlist her best efforts in his be- 
half. 

The next morning meat, groceries, and fuel 
were sent in such abundance to the rooms of 
Seth Grant, that Nellie counted herself rich. 
Her husband was able to sit up that morning, 
and in her delight she flitted about with real 
childlike gayety, now and then appealing to her 
neighbor to know what she should do with 
certain articles which had come into her pos- 
session. “ Poor child,” murmured her hus- 
band, looking at her compassionately ; but she 
knew no reason why she should be pitied. 
His illness had been the greatest affliction 
of her life. She did not remember her father, 
and when her mother died there remained 
this, to her, one friend, dearer than all the 


father merrill’s thanksgiving. 401 

world beside. Him she trusted so implicitly 
that she could not dream he would do wrong, 
and when misfortune came to them she did 
not blame him for aught he had done or failed 
to do. 

Having begun a good work, George Esty 
did not flag in its execution. The evening 
found him again with Seth Grant, whom he 
encouraged, counseled, and warned with 
hearty earnestness. To save this man, and 
one day to present him to his grandparents 
worthy of their love and confidence, would be 
the best expression of a gratitude which deep- 
ened with every remembrance of the kindness 
which had awakened it. 

A few days of generous living restored the 
invalid to something of his wonted strength, 
and his friend having found employment for 
him, he commenced work with high hopes. 
He had been called a jolly fellow as he worked, 
and drank, and gambled with reckless gayety, 
as though life was but a farce, and he a soul- 
less being. Now he worked at his best, real- 
izing that for every act and word he was ac- 
countable to God. 


402 


FATHER MERRILL. 


He begged to be allowed to repay his ben- 
efactor; but this being peremptorily refused, 
when he held in his hand a month’s wages, all 
his own, he was rich as Nellie had been when 
she counted her store of good things. An 
appeal was made to Mrs. Downs to know how 
this money should be spent, and she, in her 
motherly way, advised that Sunday suits 
should be bought. This would enable them 
to attend church, and so please their friend, 
which was sufficient reason why the advice 
should be accepted. 

Then there was a new delight over the well- 
made, neatly-fitting garments, and if anything 
was needed to complete their happiness, it 
was supplied when Mr. Esty walked home 
from church with them, and sitting down to 
their table, ate and drank as one in no way 
above them. 

Seth Grant’s better nature being in the as- 
cendant, there was a look in his face like 
Father Merrill, as he said, “ I think, perhaps, 
I’ll make something of a man after all. At 
any rate I shall try. It did me good to hear 


father merrill’s thanksgiving. 403 

that minister preach to-day. When I’m good 
enough, I want you to tell my grandfather 
about me ; but not now ; wait till I’m better 
off.” 

George Esty acquiesced in this ; and so it 
was that through all the summer and early au- 
tumn one letter after another was written to 
Father Merrill, with never a word of his grand- 
children. At length, a week before the time- 
honored New England holiday, which calls her 
sons and daughters home, the young man 
wrote to say that he was coming that way, and 
had invited some friends to share the hospital- 
ity which had been offered to himself. 

“ Of course we shall be glad to see them 
all,” said mother Merrill, and forthwith pro- 
ceeded, with Betsy’s help, to make prepara- 
tions for a grand Thanksgiving. The expected 
guests arrived at the appointed time, when 
George Esty had no reason to blush for his 
friends, or feel that he had presumed in invit- 
ing them to accompany him. 

Supper was in readiness, and all were seated 
round the table, when Betsy exclaimed, “ Why, 


404 


FATHER MERRILL. 


Mr. Grant, you look enough like Father Mer- 
rill to be his son ! ” 

“Thank you for the compliment,” replied 
the stranger. 

Mother Merrill adjusted her spectacles, and 
looked at the man sitting beside her husband. 
Betsy was confused at the thought of her 
abrupt speech, and even Mr. Grant seemed 
embarrassed. 

George Esty said, “ Father Merrill, your 
eldest daughter was married — was she not ? ” 

“Yes, and her husband’s name was Grant. 
Be you a relative of his ? ” asked the old man, 
turning to his stranger guest. 

“ I am his son,” was the reply. 

“ Mabel’s son ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ My boy ! ” There was a world of pathos 
in these words, as Mrs. Merrill uttered them, 
rising from her seat. 

To give an adequate description of the scene 
which followed would be impossible. There 
were tears, and sobs, and embracings, with 
murmured thanks and expressions of joy, while 


father merrill’s thanksgiving. 405 

be who had for months anticipated this meet- 
ing bowed his head and wept. It was a full 
hour before any one could think of eating, and 
then small justice was done to the supper. 

The next day was a Thanksgiving, indeed. 
The good news seemed to be borne on the 
wings of the wind, and there were few families 
in town which did not know that Father Mer- 
rill’s grandson had come to visit the old folks. 
But why he had come at this time, and with 
George Esty, was known only to those most 
interested. 

Within a few hours after his arrival, Seth 
Grant, alone with his grandparents, had told 
this story, making no effort to conceal or ex- 
cuse his faults. Such as they were, the bane 
of his life and the cause of his misfortunes, he 
frankly confessed them. 

“ But, Seth, my boy, you’ve made up your 
mind to do different,” said his grandfather. 

“ Yes, sir, I have, or you wouldn’t have seen 
me,” was the reply. “ Mr. Esty has done for 
me all that one man can do for another, and 
when he said you had no need to be ashamed 


40 6 FATHER MERRILL. 

of me, then I came.” It was now George Es- 
ty’s turn to receive thanks from his old friends, 
and again from Mr. and Mrs. Grant for having 
introduced them to such a delightful home. 
Even the baby seemed to smile more lovingly 
upon him, while Betsy assured him that they 
were all ready to worship him. 

I will not say that Father Merrill was proud 
of the really fine-looking man who stood be- 
side him in church the next day, and whom all 
could recognize as his grandson, but it is true 
that his thanksgivings were like psalms of tri- 
umph. Those who remembered Mabel Mer- 
rill were desirous to speak to her son, and be- 
fore the day had closed he felt himself no 
longer a stranger. 

Nellie, his sweet young wife, basked in the 
sunshine of affection which surrounded her, 
and grew radiant under its influence. “Just 
babies, she and her baby both,” said Betsy, 
taking them to her heart with something of 
the fondness manifested by mother Merrill. 

George Esty remained with his friends two 
days, when he returned to the city, leaving 


father merrill’s thanksgiving. 407 

Mr. and Mrs. Grant to complete their visit 
without him. At the end of two weeks, which 
was far too short for all that must be said and 
done, they, too, parted from the old people, 
with many assurances of regard and promises 
of future meeting. 

Looking after them as long as they "Were in 
view, Father Merrill repeated, in a clear, ring- 
ing voice, “ Godliness is profitable unto all 
things, having promise of the life that now is, 
and of that which is to come.” 

Twenty years. What changes had occurred ! 
Children had grown to be men and women. 
Young men and maidens had become fathers 
and mothers. The old had laid aside their 
earthly garments, and the places which had 
known them would know them no more. Yet 
Father and mother Merrill still blessed the 
world by their presence, and gladdened the 
hearts of those who loved them. 

The old man’s ninetieth birthday was made 
the occasion of the reunion of his relatives and 
friends, — some coming from a distance, and 
all eager to do him honor. His grandchildren 


408 


FATHER MERRILL. 


and great-grandchildren, — the latter a group 
of six sons and daughters, each bearing the old 
family name, — were first among the welcome 
guests. 

Then Dorcas Armstrong, a hale, robust 
woman, although she was nearing the seven- 
tieth milestone in her life’s journey, and with 
her the children whom God had given her, 
Henry and Maggie Wyman. Henry had 
achieved great success as an architect, and 
Maggie was the happy wife of Brent Murray, 
who had made for himself a brilliant reputa- 
tion. He had found it possible to obey his 
father’s dying injunction while prosecuting his 
daily business, and counted his Christian honor 
above gold or preferment. 

George Esty, the prosperous merchant, came 
with wife and children, each bringing some 
tribute of affection. Mr. Goddard’s entire 
family was present. Ben, an eloquent preach- 
er, who had in no way-disappointed his friends, 
and who, now that he was husband and father, 
made his home the brightest spot on earth for 
those who shared it with him. 


father merrill’s thanksgiving. 409 

Frank Clifford, too, a man rich in this 
world’s goods, yet richer far in his goodness 
and greatness as an ambassador for Christ. 
With him is one we have known as Jennie 
Murray, and still another, the image of him- 
self, a manly boy, who watches over Mrs. 
Murray with rare devotion. Mr. Stearns 
and his household, a goodly company, who, 
from their earliest years, had loved and re- 
spected grandpa and grandma Merrill. 

Many others there were crowding the spa- 
cious rooms, and congratulating the old peo- 
ple upon having lived to. see this day, each 
and all remembering some deed of kindness 
or word of encouragement which must be 
acknowledged. 

Father and mother Merrill, so loved and 
honored, looked around upon their guests 
with undimmed eyes, save as they grew 
misty with tears. Life with them was wan- 
ing to its close, yet they stood erect, with 
the same expression upon their faces which 
had glorified them in the years that were 
past, and the same glowing happiness in 
their hearts. 


4io 


FATHER MERRILL. 


As they were about to separate, the old 
man repeated his favorite text, and prayed 
that God would grant them “ another meet- 
ing in the upper temple, from which they 
should go no mor.e out.” 



The Sunday-School Commentary. 


THE NEW TESTAMENT; 

With Notes, Pictorial Illustrations, 
and References. 

By Rev. Israel P. Warren, D. D. 

The first volume of this work embraces the Gospels and Acts of the Apos- 
tles. It is designed to be a concise yet complete commentary, exhibiting 
the results of the best and most recent biblical scholarship, as given by 
Alford, Lange, O'shausen, Tholuck, Trench, Stuart, Robinson, Hackett, 
and others. The notes are both explanatory and practical. 

The text of the Gospels is divided into sections numbered to correspond 
to a Chronological Harmony given in tabular form. An Alphabetical In- 
dex is appended, by which the leading events and topics can be referred to 
without the aid of a Concordance. 

Numerous pictorial illustrations are given, chiefly of eastern customs and 
places. Also three maps : i Colored Map of Palestine : 2. The Sea of 
Galilee and the surrounding Region : 3. The missionary journeys of the 
apostle Paul. 

The first volume is complete in itself, and is now ready. The second 
is in course of preparation. 

The fact that this work was first published by the American Tract Society 
(Boston) is a sufficient guaranty of its merit and its theological soundness. 

It is believed to be one of the most convenient, complete, and inexpensive 
aids in family and Sabbath-school instruction to be found. 

Published by Lee & Shepard, Boston ; and Lee, Shepard & Dillino 
ham, New York. Price, $2.00. 

For sale also by Broughton & Wyman, 13 Bible House, New York; 
H. A. Sumner, ho Dearborn St., Chicago, 111 . ; and by the Author, 52 
Washington Street, Boston. 


1 


Testimonies of eminent clergymen to Dr. 
Warren’s Sunday-School Commentary on the 
New Testament. 


Rev. E. N. Kirk, D. D. 

“ I am witness to the fidelity and diligence, the scrupulous care 'and 
sense of responsibility of the author, in preparing a popular exposition of 
the four Gcspels. Others have labored in the same field, none, I believe, 
with greater advantages or success than he. The degree of examination 
I have given to the work authorizes me to join with my brethren in com- 
mending it to the confidence of the churches. Without denominational 
bias, it is true to the doctrinal teachings of our common Christianity.” 

Rev. N. Adams, D. D. 

“ It is one of the most perfectly made books I ever saw. Externally, its 
shape and binding are all that one could desire, and within, it bears the 
marks of superior editorial ability and good taste. The notes show careful 
research, good judgment, power of condensation, tact, and, it seems to me, 
will generally commend themselves to impartial readers. I especially like 
the practical thoughts. Viewed as a reprint of the New Testament text, 
it is a convenient and pleasant volume to handle and to use in common 
reading, as well as lor critical purposes.” 

Rev. E. B. Webb, D. D. 

“ The Commentary is in sympathy with the text. It is all laconic, con- 
densed, and yet not barren, for often a great deal of critical information 
and the result of extensive reading is packed away in a single line. There 
is no prolix discussion of any thing, but often great force and energy in a 
single practical reflection, and every now and then a happy turn of good 
common sense in paralyzing an objection that can not be removed. It 
seems to me now that this Commentary will have a place and meet a want 
beyond what has been anticipated.” 

Rev. Wm. Hague, D. D. 

“ I am free to express my high appreciation of the scholarly diligence, 
discrimination and power of condensed statement, which the work exhibits 
from the beginning to the end. Distinguished by these qualities in a high 
degree, and complete in one volume, it is well suited to meet a want that is 
w'idely felt. At the same time, the justness, aptness, and often the logical 
connection of the * practical thoughts,’ render the book eminently sug- 
gestive, and enhance its value as an aid to the Sunday-school teacher.” 

Rev. Wm. Lamson, D. D. 

“The mechanical execution is admirable. The paper, type and illus- 
trations all give the eye pleasure. The notes, too, as far as we have exam- 
ined them, are judicious and clear, and the practical thoughts at the close 
of the chapters are natural and pertinent. There is a great deal of con- 
densed information in the volume.” 


2 


Israel P. Warren, Publisher, Boston. 


WHAT IS TRUTH? 

AN INQUIRY 

CONCERNING THE ANTIQUITY AND UNITY 

OF THE 

HUMAN RACE, 

With an Examination of Recent Scientific Speculations on those 

Subjects. 

By Rev. EBENEZER BURGESS, A. M., Member of the 
American Oriental Society, etc. 

Large 12M0. Pp. 424. Price $2.00. 

The object of this work is to uphold the truthfulness 
of the Mosaic account of the Creation, and Dispersion 
of Man on the Earth, in opposition to the speculations 
referred to. 

CONTENTS. 

Chapter I. — Introductory. View of the Bible Chronology. The true 
date of the Creation and the Flood, as given in the.Oid Testament 
Chapter II. — The Argument from History. Egypt. 

Chapter III. — The Argument from History, continued. Greece and 
Rome. 

Chapter IV. — The Argument from History, continued. The Chal- 
deans. 

Chapter V. — The Argument from History, continued. The Hindus. 
Chapter VI. — The Argument from History, continued. The Chi- 
nese. 

In these five chapters, the antiquities, both historical and monu- 
mental, of the nations mentioned, are examined, showing that their 
testimony is not inconsistent with the Scripture account, but con- 
firmatory of it. 

Chapter VII. — The Argument from Ethnology. Proving that all 
the existing nations and races of men are descended from the fam- 
ily of Noah. 

Chapter VIII. — The Argument from Physiology. Evidence of the 
Unity of the Human Species, under all varieties of form, color, etc. 
Chapter IX. — The Argument from Language. Diversities in Lan- 
guages consistent wilh the Unity of the Race. 

Chapter X. — The Argument from Tradition. Memorials of the 
primitive ages, the creation, the flood, etc., preserved in the tra- 
ditions of all nations. 

Chapter XI. — The Argument from Mythology. All the ancient 
systems of mythology radically the same, and derived from the 
Mosaic narrative. 

Chapter XII. — The Argument from Geology. Alleged facts of 
geology bearing on the question of the antiquity of man. 


9 


Israel P. Warren, Publisher, Boston, 


MARGARET’S OLD HOME; 

A TALE OF CHRISTIAN LOVE. 

By the Author of “ The New Commandment,” “ Neighbor’s 

House,” Etc. 

i6mo. Three Engravings. $1.50. 


\ 

No other branch of literary composition has shown 
such steady marks of progress as Sunday-school books, 
and if this elegant volume is really intended for this pur- 
pose, we need no better evidence of an elevation and 
refinement of taste among the class for which such vol- 
umes are written. Ten years ago, a book of so muich 
literary merit, in so beautiful a dress, would have been 
an elegant birthday or Christmas present. This inter- 
esting story possesses also another great merit: it is 
entirely unsectional and unsectarian in character, being 
exactly, wha4: it pretends to be, “A Tale of Christian 
Love.” — Christian Union. 

It is an interesting and profitable story to place in the hands of 
any youth. The narrative illustrates the power of Christian love 
and patience in reforming the evils which have grown up in a 
worldly family, and also in bringing an intemperate and irreligious 
village under gospel influences. — Boston Traveller . 

The story is well told, and is suited to the wants of the older 
classes in Sunday-school. — ,S. S. Times. 

A most acceptable addition to the current useful literature for 
young people. — Boston Journal. 

It is a story above the ordinary standard. It beautifully illus- 
trates the refining influence of true religion in the person and the 
home, and the power of a single sweet-minded Christian woman to 
revolutionize not only a household, but a community. — Adv. and 
Fam. Guardian. 

The publisher’s part of the work is executed with marked taste 
and elegance. — Christian Advocate. 

It is a very interesting and well-written story, and one that will 
win its way wherever it is known. “ Margaret,” after many years’ 
absence, goes back to her “old home,” which she finds in anything 
but an agreeable state. The changes wrought by her loving” heart, 
and sweet, womanly ways, are really marvellous. — T\« People , 
Concord. 


Israel P. Warren, Publisher, Boston. 


the 

WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUM. 

A STORY. 

i6mo. Three Engravings. $1.50. 
(Just Published.) 


The “White Chrysanthemum ” was a pet name given 
by Mr. Winwood to his young daughter Agnes, because 
of her love of trutk , of which this flower was the sym- 
bol. The design of the book is to set forth the beauty 
of truthfulness, and the methods by which a bright and 
interesting family were trained to the practice and love 
of it. The narrative is very entertaining, and inter- 
weaves a large amount of useful knowledge. There 
can be no better book for the young than this, and 
scarcely any more needful to correct the insincere, the 
crooked, and the false ways of speech and conduct so 
lamentably prevalent in society. 

It is a very handsome book of 389 pages, beautifully 
printed from new type, and bound in the newest and 
most attractive style of gold and black. 


THE* 

LITTLE STANDARD-BEARER. 

i8mo. Three Engravings. 60 cts. 

( Just Published.) 


The story of a poor boy who fell among- thieves, but, by standing 
firm against temptation, escaped from their influence, and won his 
way to a happy and useful life. 

C14 


Israel P. Warren, Publisher, Boston. 


THE CHILDREN 

OF 

THE GREAT KING. 

i6mo. Three Engravings. $1.25. 


A glimpse of the inner life of a refined English fam- 
ily, exhibiting not only the power of religion, but that 
beautiful reverence for parents, and gentle courtesy 
among all the household, which are characteristic of 
the best English society. -Colonel Percy, called into 
the Crimean War, leaves his two motherless children 
in the family of their uncle, where they find a cam- 
paign, in the service .of the King of kings, no less ardu- 
ous, and of even higher responsibility, than that of 
their father in the service of his country. 

This handsome volume is written to illustrate the influence of 
home in developing- character. A well-regulated English family is 
chosen for this purpose, and the lesson sought to be enforced is the 
duty of active benevolence in the humbler walks of life. The char- 
acter's are well drawn, and the moral charmingly enforced. — Albany 
Evening Journal. 

The story is an excellent one for the Sunday-school library. — S. 
S. Times. ' 

A choice volume for home reading and Sabbath-school libraries. 
— Western Rural. 

A reprint of an excellent story about a boy and girl, who were 
placed with an uncle while the father went to the Crimea during the 
last war between Russia and England. The father was in the army 
of the Queen; they too were in an army — that of the King of 
kings. The book is pious and sensible. — Lutherati S. S. Herald. 

A charming picture of the domestic life of a quiet English family. 
It is full of reposeful beauty, and teaches how happiness maybe 
attained under the influence of right principles. The customs of 
English life vary from our own, and are here well portrayed. — Al- 
bany Paper. 

The mechanical execution of the book is faultless. — The People t 
Concord. 


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